


Disconnected Conduit

by Annessarose



Series: The Mortal Gods [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Horror, Dark Anakin Skywalker, Eldritch, Eldritch Ahsoka Tano, Eldritch Anakin Skywalker, Eldritch Obi-Wan Kenobi, Gen, Gore, Grey Obi-Wan Kenobi, Horror, Mortis (Star Wars), Nightsisters (Star Wars), Non-Linear Narrative, Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic References, Tatooine Slave Culture, That's Not How The Force Works, Togruta culture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 145,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24613453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annessarose/pseuds/Annessarose
Summary: There are rumors that the Jedi are not entirely… natural. They move too quickly, too silently, and their eyes always look to something nobody else can see.“Unnatural,” some people murmur. “This ‘Force.’ It’s not right.”Mortis was a conduit of the Force.Anakin Skywalker had been a temporary conduit for the Daughter, had Fallen in the Well of the Dark Side, had been born from the Force.Ahsoka Tano had been transformed by the Son, had been killed by the Dark, had been restored by the life of the Daughter.Obi-Wan Kenobi had been taken to the Altar formed of pure Force, had been trapped in the Well of the Dark, had spoken with the dead.They had been immersed in the Force more deeply than any other Jedi.More deeply than what the Jedi consider to be… natural.Here’s what it means.--A post-Mortis canon divergence AU featuring Eldritch! and BAMF! Clone Wars trio. Includes a very deep dive into extended canon, including books, comics, video games, as well as some Legends lore. Also includes some very liberal use of what the Force is and how it works.
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker & Ahsoka Tano, CC-2224 | Cody & CT-7567 | Rex, CC-2224 | Cody & Obi-Wan Kenobi, CT-7567 | Rex & Ahsoka Tano, CT-7567 | Rex & Anakin Skywalker, Mace Windu & Yoda, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Obi-Wan Kenobi & Ahsoka Tano, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker & Ahsoka Tano, Obi-Wan Kenobi/Satine Kryze, Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker
Series: The Mortal Gods [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2176506
Comments: 515
Kudos: 1366
Collections: Eldritch Star Wars, the peasant's guide to fine reading





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [wonderterror](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10560054) by [peradi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peradi/pseuds/peradi). 



> I'm a huge fan of that work and its premise - there's not enough "The Force is an Eldritch Horror" fics out there. 
> 
> As for the other fics I'm working on, I'll get there, I promise!

**Now.**

It’s almost like a painting, he thinks, an image captured in a popular holodrama. Red-gold flames soar from the senate dome, bodies falling, bodies lying around him, bodies of senators and of regular citizens and of his brothers. Broken durasteel poles slash through the air at crooked angles. Shattered glass is everywhere, found more often than not in people’s hands and arms as they try to flee. He tries very hard not to see some details, but he knows they will be forever imprinted in his mind, like all other battles. A brother, lying too still, his body on one side of the street and his legs on the other. A family of three, faces frozen forever in agony, crushed underneath the fallen concrete. 

His voice is hoarse, raw from the hours and hours of screaming both through his comm and at the people of Coruscant. There are still too many innocents, too many people, too many non-combatants caught in the warzone. 

Something large and heavy slams into the concrete at his side, throwing him off his feet and knocking his twin blasters out of his hands. He lands hard on his back, his breath knocked out of his lungs, his head ringing, and it takes a second too long for him to recover.

The sky above looks so beautiful, he thinks, from this position. So still. No war, no death, only the yawning darkness of space above. Someone shouts his name and he turns his head, too slowly, too groggily. His head is still ringing. The noise in his ears is high-pitched, loud, but not loud enough to overcome the cackling laughter, slimy and rotten, crawling above the screams from the Senate Dome. 

It’s almost like a painting, he thinks, and he watches as blue lightning snakes through the air towards him. Almost, if not for the screams of his brothers he can hear through his comm, if not for the cry of his Commander as she tries to reach him, if not for the sound of his General roaring his name in despair. 

\--

**Then.**

Something is different about the Generals and the Commander.

When they rendez-vous with Rex and the 501st on the flagship after Mortis, he does a double-take that’s so subtle and fast he’s not sure if any of the Generals or the Commander noticed. None of them mention it and most of the trip passes without event, save for the part where Rex stares with incredulity as the three Jedi report to the Council about being stranded on an unnatural planet for days in the span of about ten seconds in real time. 

“No offense, Generals, Commander,” he says later, “If I didn’t know better, I would have told you off for giving such a banthashit report.” 

Anakin laughs, an easygoing smile showing-

( _-that’s not natural, what are those, that’s not human teeth, that’s not-_ )

-teeth, and he shrugs. “None taken, Rex. We’re not sure if we understand what happened either.”

Rex laughs, then heads to his quarters to rest during the hyperspace trip back to Coruscant, pretending that there isn’t something weird about how they are moving that makes his stomach turn. 

He listens carefully, though, as he turns and leaves the room. 

“C’mon, Snips, let’s take a look at some of your katas,” Anakin says, and Rex lets out a small sigh of relief when he hears her whine in the same way she always whines when she wants to laze around instead of practicing. 

He finds Fives and Jesse waiting for him at the doors to his room. _Need to talk,_ Jesse signs in the secret sign language of the ARC troopers of the 501st, and Rex gives a sharp nod before opening the door and gesturing them into his quarters

The seriousness of the situation hangs heavy in the air. Their sign language is rarely used, only in times when they need to discuss sensitive information in a place that can be overheard or during stealth missions. They sit in silence, none of them daring to voice what they’re all sure the others want to say, before Fives breaks it with a sharp gesture. 

_Did you see it too?_ He signs, his gestures frantic. _There was something…_ _wrong_ _about them. Something off._

 _I did,_ Rex signs back, but he makes sure he still projects calm. None of the clones may be Force-Sensitive, but they can still pick up body language. _It’s still them, I checked._

 _It might still be them, but you can’t deny that something hasn’t changed._ Jesse’s hands are fluid and quick, fingers flicking out and changing and moving again. _And- we saw it. Through the corners of our eyes. There’s something about them that’s not human or Togruta._

Yes, there was. 

_Still, they’re our generals, our Commander,_ Rex signs viciously. _I trust them with my life. I don’t think we should fear them._

He realizes as he signs the words that he has misinterpreted his brothers’ fears. 

_We’re not scared_ _of_ _them, brother_ , Fives signs, worry clear in every line of his face. _We’re scared_ _for_ _them._

\--

In one of the hangars, the only place large enough for them to spar, green and yellow flashes against blue as Ahsoka spars with her master. Sometimes, Echo likes to stop by to watch them, blades whirling gracefully in beautiful arcs that move just a little too quickly to be natural. Occasionally, he’ll catch another one or two of his brothers watching the Jedi (not that they seem to mind at all), but today, it’s just him. 

Today, something seems a bit off. 

He’s fought with them. He’s watched them spar enough to notice that this time, Commander Tano seems to be jumping a little _too_ high, that General Skywalker’s swings are a little _too_ strong, and it’s noticeable enough that they’re both thrown off and frustrated by the time General Kenobi tries to call a halt. 

There’s something else, too, but he can’t quite put a finger on it. 

They’re both so immersed in the spar that neither of them pay attention to General Kenobi’s calls for a halt to correct their stances. Sighing, Echo turns to head to his quarters to work on a few of his reports. It’s not like they’re moving slowly enough for him to even begin to understand what is going on today. As he heads out of the hangar, the sound of sabers clashing behind him, he hears- 

( _-the beat of leathery wings-)_

_(-a scream, animalistic and primal, the scream of a griffin and a convor and something more-)_

-General Kenobi raise his voice slightly, and the sound of lightsabers stop as two chastised Jedi lower their weapons. 

\--

Alone in the Council chambers, the Korun master sits, perplexed at Master Yoda’s distracted state. 

“You wanted to speak to me, Master Yoda?”

“See it too, you did, hm?”

“See… what? We only debriefed Obi-Wan and his lineage. There was nothing unusual to see in front of us, despite how unusual their report was.” 

(He knows what he saw. He doesn’t want to admit it.)

“Not with your eyes. Betray you, they do. But in the Force, see the change, did you?”

Silence.

Then…

“I’ve only seen such things in the writings of the Nightsisters of Dathomir.” After all, to develop a fighting form such as Vaapad, one must study all aspects of the Force, especially the Dark, in order to control it.

A hum. “Primordial beings, the Ones are. An unseen influence, they may have left, on Obi-Wan and his students.” A shift, then Yoda stands, making for the door. “Great care, we must take.”

Mace huffs, a strained chuckle that doesn’t fool either of them. “With all due respect, Master, I do not think we can proceed with anything else when dealing with something the Nightsisters fear.”

\--

**Now.**

The air reeks of ozone and blood. Even through the filters in his helmet, the smell makes Cody want to retch. He wants to fall to his knees, to run away, to curl up, to shout, to freeze, but none of those are options. The scene around him is familiar but also strange, like seeing a holodrama set in a place that doesn’t fit the story. He’s seen flames before. He’s seen bodies, he’s heard the sound of blasterfire, he’s used to war. But here, on Coruscant...

The screaming around him hasn’t stopped for the past two hours. 

Cody’s breath feels hot against the interior of his helmet. His head is pounding from the noise and his muscles feel like they’re on fire from the exertion. The Senate district has never been home to him, not really, but he’s been here enough times to feel a sort of attachment to it. There’s flames dancing through the broken windows and on the ground and from rooftops, but every inch of him feels cold. This is all wrong. This is all so very, very wrong. 

Something small tugs at his arm and he whirls, bringing his blaster up to bear on a frightened pantoran boy. In a jerky motion, Cody lowers his blaster. “Sorry, kid,” he says, guilt rising up inside him at the fear he sees in the boy’s eyes. “What’s the matter?”

His gut churns. The kid can’t be any more than five years old, but there’s blood staining his shirt and Cody’s sure the young pantoran is hearing the screams around them as clearly as he is. “Can you help my brother?” The kid asks, and Cody’s heart sinks. He’s been in this situation multiple times - too many times - and he’s only able to help maybe half the time. 

“Sure. Sure, kid. Lead the way,” he says, and he _knows_ \- he knows the vocoder is the only thing that’s stopping his voice from sounding too shaky to be decipherable. 

He’s bred for war. He’s only ever known how to fight, how to be a soldier, but some things cannot be prepared. Some things cannot ever get easier. He watches the kid in front of him, five years at most, covered in blood, wandering through a battlefield of shattered transparisteel and chunks of duracrete and blood and _parts of bodies_ , and he has to force his stomach to calm. He can’t break down. Not… not yet. Not until he’s helped this kid to get to safety. 

Not until he’s helped this kid get to someplace that doesn’t have so much screaming.

Cody can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when he sees the kid’s brother. He’s battered, his leg pinned under rubble, but he’s conscious and clear-headed, indicating that he’s not too severely injured. “I need backup for civilian rescue!” Cody snaps into his comm. Crouching down, he examines the wreckage of what likely used to be the pantoran family’s house. Hints of the living space poke out here and there - dust-covered pieces of painted plaster, the broken wooden carvings of a tiny ship model, along with torn half of a poster of a holodrama. The young pantoran reaches out, pleading for help, and Cody grasps his hand. “Help is on the way, kid. We got you. What’s your name?”

He can’t be any older than ten. “Losyn, sir,” the pantoran says. 

“Alright, Losyn, hang in there.” Cody looks up eyeing the surrounding area. There’s no immediate danger that he can see - the two pantorans he’s with should be safe for now, but he needs to get them somewhere that isn’t spattered with blood and dust and filled with screams. He spots several of his men, running towards him and signalling their approach, and he waves back. He looks back down. Keep an eye out, but distract the kids. Don’t let them focus on the screams. Don’t let them look at the blood. “We’re not in immediate danger. How’s the leg?”

Losyn’s voice shakes. “It doesn’t hurt, sir. I just can’t get it out.” His other hand reaches out, grasping his little brother’s hand, and Cody is struck by the memory of him doing the same with his brothers. Only this time, at least, neither Losyn nor his brother are glassy-eyed, riddled with blaster or shrapnel wounds, or already going cold. 

Even if he can’t do anything else today, Cody is going to save these two pantorans, dammit, because they’re kids, because they’re brothers, because they’re _alive_ and they don’t deserve to be on a battlefield with red staining their tunics and grime on their faces. It doesn’t miss his notice that neither of the kids mention their parents, and his heart aches. 

Several of Cody’s own brothers arrive, their white-and-yellow armor stained red-grey with dust and cinders and blood, and one eye on the situation shows them that they’re fortunate enough that the rubble Losyn is pinned under can be lifted with enough men. While one of the troopers checks over Losyn’s kid brother, Cody’s brothers heave and lift the rubble as Cody carefully pulls the kid out. “We got you. We got you.”

The kid isn’t screaming. That’s good. That’s good.

Losyn makes to stand, trying to put weight on his feet, but the medical trooper that had just finished checking the pantoran’s brother stops him. “Careful, kid. Mind if we take a look at that leg?”

“I’m fine,” Losyn says stubbornly, then jumps on his legs a few times, eliciting a small cry of distress from Cody and his brothers and a laugh from Losyn’s brother. 

_Damn kids,_ Cody thinks with a tired fondness. 

“We got it from here, Commander,” one of Cody’s brothers says, and he nods as they move the kids to safety. 

“Thank you, sir!” Losyn calls, and a tiny part of Cody’s uneasy stomach stills, calmed by the fact that, at least, he could save the pantoran and his brother. Cody waves back, a small smile on his lips as he watches them go, before he turns around and nearly gets a kriffing heart attack when he sees his General standing right there. 

“Karking _shavit!_ ” Cody shouts, his blaster trembling in his hands. “Stop doing that!”

There’s no humor in General Kenobi’s face, though, something which speaks to the seriousness of their situation. “I need you,” he says simply, and he grabs Cody’s arm and the commander suddenly finds himself in a completely different section of the Senate district, three blocks closer to the senate dome than he was before, with a stomach that’s fighting to keep down his lunch.

There’s still screams here. Different ones, but they’re still there. 

Cody stumbles, cursing under his breath, promising to himself that when this was all over, he would give his General the cussing out of his _life._ He whirls, taking stock of his surroundings, and he can’t bring himself to be surprised when he realizes his General is no longer there, vanished in a blue-green mist to kark knows where. Cody turns again, taking a second look, his breath catching as he sees Rex, moving feebly, moving too slowly. 

There’s a hideous laughter coming from near the senate dome. Blue lightning slices through the air, bearing down towards Rex, and Cody knows - he _knows_ \- he’s too far away. Part of his mind curses General Kenobi for leaving him three steps too far to reach his brother in time. 

He’s heard about Force lightning and seen its effects. He remembers stopping by the medbay to check on his brothers and seeing General Skywalker with burns that spiderwebbed across his back and arms and tremors that wouldn’t stop. He remembers checking on his own General after that trip to- to Mortis, was it? - and shouting himself hoarse when Obi-Wan refused to go to the medbay despite the fact that his vision was blurry and his arms wouldn’t stop shaking. 

Distantly, part of him sees that the lightning crawling through the air is melting the duracrete into slag. Long, spidery fingers of electricity lurch with unstoppable Force towards his brother, and Cody knows that Rex won’t survive this. His heart is pounding in his ears and his legs are burning, his throat burning as he bellows at Rex to get up, _GET UP,_ his ears filled with the twin howls of General Skywalker and Commander Tano as they call for their Captain, and he lunges toward his brother, intending to take the hit, but knowing he can’t in time, but _please, please, brother, no, no, no no no nonononono-!_

This time it’s Cody screaming, but he’s not really aware of it as he watches Rex’s body convulse in agony, the lightning tearing through his armor and searing into his flesh. 

He can hear Rex’s screams mingling with his own. 

He’s vaguely aware that one of his own hands is reaching desperately towards his brother and that the other is pulling the trigger, firing again and again and again and again and again in the direction of the lightning, because it needs to stop, he can’t stand this, it needs to stop, stop, stop, _stop it, stop screaming, STOP-_

The lightning stops. Cody is so caught up in his own momentum that his instincts take over, vaulting over Rex, grabbing his brother, and rolling them both away to safety before his mind fully registers what is going on. He jerks his head up, his breath catching as he freezes. 

His General is standing between them and the Force lightning, catching the deadly blue with an open hand as he struggles to hold his ground against the assault. The duracrete around his feet is splitting apart, melting and cracking at the power General Kenobi is holding back. His head turns, eyes alight with a blue-green flame _,_ and he shouts. “ _Go, Cody!”_

Cody’s body is already moving before his mind realizes what he’s doing. He’s been trained to be a soldier since birth. Following orders is hammered into his instincts. His feet pound against the ground, one hand holding Rex over his shoulder and the other clutching his blaster, his eyes darting here and back to search for threats as he gets his brother to safety. 

He trusts his General. He’ll get out of this. If he doesn’t, Cody vows that he will drag Obi-Wan Kenobi away from death to kill him again for being so reckless. 

Sith hells. Cody can still hear screams around him, but he also knows that Rex is silent. 

He clutches tighter, unable to feel the rising and falling of his brother’s chest through their armor, and he runs. 

\--

**Then.**

At the Altar of Mortis, Daughter had stopped just beyond the reaches of the blue-green flames. “I can go no further,” she had said, warning in her voice. 

Obi-Wan had not fully considered the implications of her words. 

He had walked through the flames, through their gentle caresses which whispered with the power of the Force, had held the Dagger as it formed under his fingertips. He had watched as the mist had gathered around his hand, as it had formed a blade that would kill two-thirds of the Ones, as the mist of the blade formed by the Force had sunken through his gloves and into his skin. 

He had thought it had been to test him, to see if he was strong enough to hold it. The Force had not whispered any warning, had not called to him with the cold promises of the Dark. The Force had not warned him of any consequences. 

_I was_ _a fool_ , he thinks, staring into the mirror at the present. His tabards are carefully folded on a chair in his room as he stares into his eyes, the same flickering blue-green colour as the flames of the Altar. He looks down, gazing at a scar-ridden torso, at his arms, at his hands, and he stares at his fingertips as they dissolve into a blue-green mist and reform again. 

\--

In the cave on Mortis, Ahsoka had spoken with a vision of her future. “There is a wildness to you, young one,” her older self and said, and Ahsoka had sensed the truth in her words. 

She stares into the mirror now in her quarters at the Temple, seeing not her own reflection but the same tall figure that had spoken to her on Mortis. 

“You did not heed my warning,” the not-reflection tells her. 

Ahsoka stares back unflinchingly. “Your prediction was flawed.” 

“Was it?” Her not-reflection tilts its head, blue eyes blinking and turning briefly into a startling gold as a black poison seeps into its veins and montrals. “You were Turned. You became one with the Force. _You were not meant to come back._ ”

The revelation of her avoided destiny does not startle her as much as it should. After the mission, Obi-Wan had taken her and Anakin aside, quietly explaining the events that neither of them could remember. Anakin had added on to the story with his recollections of Ahsoka’s possession, but had grown quiet when he was told of his Fall. 

_There is no death, there is the Force,_ she tells herself quietly. 

“But I did,” Ahsoka says, staring at the corrupted figure of her older self. 

The not-reflection’s face softens, the expression foreign on a face corrupted by the Dark Side. “You did,” it whispers, and when it blinks again, its eyes shine a blinding white before the glow encompasses its whole figure. 

Ahsoka does not look away. In the space of one blink, the not-reflection disappears, leaving her own perfectly normal reflection-

(- _yes, perfectly normal, without the unfurling golden wings of a convor coming from her back, without the blue stripes on her montrals shining a bright green, without the shape of her eyes sharpening and turning into something animalistic-_ )

-staring back at her with perfectly normal blue eyes. 

\--

In the Well of the Dark Side on Mortis, Son had done something to Anakin. “I don’t know what exactly he did to you, Anakin,” Obi-Wan had said as they spoke on the trip back to Coruscant, “but you Fell.” 

Obi-Wan had made it clear that he did not blame Anakin at all - after all, they all knew the strength of the Son, and even together, none of them were a match for his power. Obi-Wan had made it clear that he had complete faith in Anakin, that he _knew_ he would never Fall. 

Anakin had kept quiet, had allowed Obi-Wan and Ahsoka to take his silence for him slowly learning to digest the new information. 

He looks at himself in the mirror in the fresher of Padmé’s apartment, fully aware that the Son had not corrupted him in the same way he had possessed Ahsoka. He thinks back to the last time he had seen his mother, _truly_ seen his mother, and how the dragon inside him had unfurled and roared with pleasure as he had massacred the Tusken camp. 

He carefully shields himself, closing even his bond with Obi-Wan and Ahsoka, then calls upon the dragon again, and looks into the mirror to see-

( _-gargoyle’s wings, dark and terrifying, unfurling from his back-_ )

( _-his teeth, sharp and fanged, dripping with venom-_ )

-his eyes, turning from blue into a beautiful molten gold as the cold of the Dark caresses him. 

It is addicting, it is powerful, it is terrifying. He’s well aware that if he stays like this for any moment longer, he will never come back, and so he calls on the memory of the Daughter’s Light, flooding through him as he became a conduit to save Ahsoka. The warmth surges through him, making his eyes flash white before they return to their normal blue colour. 

“Kriff,” he mutters under his breath, and he pretends that his breath doesn’t hitch when he hears the other voices that accompanied his own. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for gore.
> 
> Unbeta'd, as usual :')

**Then.**

The flow of time is unsteady. The slightest change can alter a timeline - a single word, a single twitch, a single spark. There is little blessing in the gift of divination. Sifo-Dyas’ vision had been true, but it had only brought about his death.

The flow of time is unsteady. The slightest change, one decimal out of place, and General Pong Krell’s flagship makes a wrong move. The long-range transmitter is hit. 

There are no summons that arrive from the Chancellor asking for the Chosen One to leave Umbara. When the Council contacts Palpatine, informing him of the complications regarding the message, he contemplates, then decides to ask one of the Council to take the mission instead. It is an unimportant one, but the Council agrees nonetheless.

It is an unimportant mission, but he knows Anakin would have jumped at the chance, been proud to have been chosen. 

The flow of time is unsteady. When Palpatine cuts the comm, he retreats to his chambers and meditates on Anakin Skywalker. He meditates on the new timelines he can see, spiraling from the darkened world of Umbara. 

What he sees pleases him, and he smiles with glee. 

\--

Something is wrong about Master Krell. 

On the surface, everything is as it should be. Master Krell had saved them with a well-timed airstrike, had been known to use devastating tactics that led to victory, and had been quick and efficient in sending help. The Force around him is tightly controlled, his emotions hidden behind the typical shields of a Jedi Master - calm, logical, and calculating. 

But something is amiss. 

As Krell speaks with his troops in the small area they had secured on Umbara, he turns his back to Anakin, who catches Rex’s eye. _UNSURE_ , Anakin signs. His men had been teaching him the secret sign language, but it had taken him a while to learn, and he is still nowhere near as fluent as they are. 

Rex’s eyes flicker quickly, glancing at Krell and back, and from anybody else’s standpoint, nothing about him changes. But Anakin knows better. He looks carefully at the subtle twitches of Rex’s fingers at his sides, and the slightest of twitches of his head. _BAD-FEELING,_ says Rex. _TRICK._

The accusation that Rex levels with that gesture borders on treason. Anakin’s eyes search Krell again, finding nothing amiss in the Force, but he can’t bring himself to disagree with Rex. He trusts his Captain without a doubt. And there’s something else. He can’t tell what it is, but something about Krell itches the back of his mind. A strange feeling about his presence that he can’t quite pinpoint. 

“General Skywalker,” Krell says as he turns, and Anakin _does not jump_ , “a private word, if you may?” 

“Of course, Master Krell,” Anakin replies, and he follows the other General with his hands clasped behind his back. His fingers twitch. _FOLLOW - SUSPECT - CAREFUL._ He doesn’t need to look behind him to know that Rex has understood the message. 

As Krell leads him to an open area, a twinge of foreboding strikes Anakin’s mind. As a Force Sensitive, he can tell that the area he has followed the besalisk to has no one around. It’s a perfect place to discuss sensitive information between two generals. 

It’s a perfect place with no witnesses.

Master Krell turns, fixing his eyes on Anakin, and he feels his body tense. While Krell may still be radiating calm, there’s something about him that sets Anakin on edge. Krell smiles, his mouth stretching wide to show teeth, and Anakin realizes what it is. 

He looks at the besalisk in front of him and sees a master. A master who hides behind kind smiles and efficient services. A master who, once he is not watched, will spit on his men with derision. Anakin sees the slight strain in Krell’s face, the carefully hidden cruelty and deception in his eyes, the arrogant certainty in his posture. Anakin looks at the besalisk in front of him and sees not a Jedi master, but a slave master. 

“I will speak plainly, Knight Skywalker,” Krell says, his voice deceptively gentle for the words he speaks. “You are uneasy. Suspicious. You suspect treachery from me.” 

If Anakin were to act like a Jedi in this moment, he’d probably spout some cryptic banthashavit about the Force. Either that, or he’d flirt with General Krell, if Obi-Wan’s tactics were anything to go by, which sounded like an extremely bad idea. No. Anakin takes a careful breath and decides on a neutral answer. “What gives you that impression, Master Krell?” 

The besalisk hums. “There is something strange about you, Skywalker,” he says, and he begins pacing, his hands clasped behind his back. “Something that connects us.”

“What could I possibly have in common with you?” In confusion, it comes out sounding a bit obnoxious, but Anakin is having a hard time deciphering what exactly the master is trying to say. 

It doesn’t seem to have offended Krell, however. Rather, he laughs, a deep, guttural sound that sends a shiver down Anakin’s back. “You cannot tell?” Something escapes Krell’s shields - a sliver of cold, leaking into the Force. A sliver of Dark. And Anakin understands as he recognizes the familiar feeling in the air. 

“You’ve Fallen,” he hisses, and his lightsaber is alight in his hands, pulsing with a familiar warmth. 

Krell makes no move to defend himself. “Such a crude word. You look at this with simplicity and lack of understanding.” 

“I understand that you are a traitor.” Anakin isn’t sure if he can hold up against a double-saberstaff wielding Darksider, but he shoves his uncertainties away with firm resolve. If he doesn’t succeed… he trusts Rex, he knows his men are good, but there will be _many_ casualties. “Surrender.” 

“You are blind.” Krell watches him with beady yellow eyes, his agitation beginning to leak into the Force. “You lead an army of creatures bred in some laboratory into a war that neither side will win. We will not survive if we do not change!”

Anakin’s voice is low as he responds. “They are not _creatures,_ ” he growls. “They are men!” 

“They are artificial, _unnatural!_ ” Krell retorts, and Anakin is cut off from a reply when a wave of pain slams into his consciousness. He recoils, a hand on his temple, and he notices two things.

That one, Rex has not followed him as he instructed, which means that something is very, very wrong.

And two, that Rex and his men are in danger, that they are terrified and in pain, and that Krell can definitely sense it too, and he is smiling. 

“Krell, _what have you done?_ ” Anakin snarls, and to his surprise, Krell takes a step back, a sliver of fear leaking through his shields before he clamps down on them with intensity. And finally, finally - Krell reaches to his sides and ignites his saberstaffs.

It should disturb Anakin how he feels a thrill shoot through him, an anticipation for the battle that will answer to this betrayal. But it doesn’t.

“They do not deserve the dignity of soldiers,” the besalisk spits. In the Force, Anakin can feel that Krell is imbalanced, a turmoil of rage, of hatred, of fear, bubbling underneath the shields of a former Jedi Master. “They are animals, and they will slaughter each other as such!”

A terrible realization dawns on Anakin at Krell’s words, echoing hollowly in Anakin’s mind in a twisted reminder of the past. Of the tusken massacre. He knows the besalisk is clever. Clever enough to engineer an absolute decimation of Separatist forces, in the past. Clever enough to engineer a massacre of the clones. Of his own men, and of the 212th.

A massacre of clone against clone. Anakin can sense Rex’s fear, his outrage, just as he can sense how there is no despair. Rex doesn’t know. He doesn’t know that he’s shooting his own brothers.

And Krell is _smiling in glee._

Anakin leaps forward with a roar, his lightsaber falling in a deadly arc to meet Krell’s twin saberstaffs. He strikes again, and again, and again, powerful blows raining down on the laughing Darksider. 

Anakin can feel his face burning with anger. To set up a massacre, to trick a brother into shooting a brother, is an atrocity that can have no justice, only vengeance. The flashing saberstaffs are unrelenting - a millimeter off, a millisecond off, and Anakin knows he will die - but there is no room for fear. He wants to see Krell begging for mercy. He wants to bury his lightsaber blade, over and over, into the gleeful besalisk, to stop the laughing and turn it into screams. Silently, he vows to take Krell alive if he can, if only so that the clones who make it back can take turns pulling the trigger. 

There is a sinking feeling in his gut that tells him that there may not be that many left to take the shot.

“Do you see now, Skywalker?” Krell taunts, his saberstaffs whirling in a blur that’s nearly too quick to follow. “You and I are alike. I can sense your fury, your hatred. Why deny yourself the power?”

“ _I am nothing like you!_ ” Anakin screams, because he’s not, he’s definitely not like Krell. A thin edge of despair edges into his consciousness, whispering sweet, venomous words into his mind. _You lie_ , it sneers. _You hold the same anger. The same hatred. The same fear within you._ Anakin denies it as he deftly parries Krell’s strikes, sinking deeply into the Force to give him the quarter of a second before each blow to save his life. His blade moves left, then right, then left again, pushing back at Krell’s blows with a hairsbreadth to spare. But the voice is relentless. _You, too, have committed a massacre, have killed entire families, have you not?_

Anakin pushes the voice back vehemently in denial, his despair leaking into the Force as he overextends himself by a millimeter. Krell takes the opening, one saber trapping Anakin’s as another one twists it out of his grip, and Anakin finds himself flying backwards with an _oomph_ as Krell kicks him into a nearby tree. His head knocks hard against the trunk and he falls forward, his vision blurring. 

Krell advances, and even through his disorientation, Anakin can sense the delight blooming in the Force. “Can you hear it, Skywalker?” He laughs, and Anakin’s stomach turns at the high whine he hears in the atmosphere. The sound of gunships flying low on an attack vector. “Can you sense it? Your men against your master’s men? Creature against creature?” Krell stops, looking down at Anakin’s fallen saber, then kicks it out of sight. “Oh, Skywalker,” he mocks, false sadness in his voice, “Do not worry. Your death will not be without purpose. It will cement my place at Dooku’s side.” 

“My men will bring you to justice,” Anakin manages with spite, his head still ringing. Moving his head up to look at Krell sends the world spinning anew, but he can’t afford to lose. Not now. Not with this karking sleemo walking free, grinning with a sadistic joy. Not with the lives of his men on the line. The Force is slippery under his grip, tantalizingly out of reach thanks to the ringing in his head, and he starts falling deeper into it, drawing desperately from the Force around him - pulling from his men’s fear, from his anger, from Krell’s hatred. Anakin finds himself wanting to forget getting his lightsaber back - he wants to rip the traitor limb from limb, he wants to end the kriffing smile that’s far too gleeful, he wants to personally ensure the bastard gets what he kriffing deserves. Screw Jedi dogma - Krell deserves his hate, his anger.

“The clones?” Krell raises his hand and Anakin finds himself slamming into the tree again, held in place by the besalisk’s Force-grip. In that moment, Anakin can’t think of anybody else he despises more than the traitor in front of him. “If there are any left, I will personally ensure they will join you. After all, _there is no death, only the Force,_ ” Krell mocks, raising his saber, and something in Anakin snaps. 

The Force around him gathers in a storm of rage and hatred and he shatters Krell’s Force grip, first from his flesh hand, then from his entire body as he gathers his fury into his hand and sends it violently forward, blasting Krell off his feet and making the traitor shout in pain and surprise. Anakin lands on his feet, wrapping the cold hatred around him, and he realizes that he has never felt so _alive._ The Force dances around him, moving in alluring shades of blue and red and black, murmuring and ready to be bent to his will, and he can’t remember for the life of him why this is forbidden. He pulls his hand back, gathering his hatred, then unleashes it again on Krell. 

It takes Anakin two seconds to realize that Krell’s screams are continuing, and to realize that the red glow on the besalisk comes not from the flora of Umbara, but from the Force Lightning thundering from Anakin’s hand. He releases the lightning and reaches out, calling his lightsaber to his robotic hand, feeling the thrum of the Force around him and in the kyber in his palm. 

_He has never felt so alive_. 

Krell groans, then stumbles to his feet, looking at Anakin with uncertain fear. Still, he gathers his bravado, igniting the twin saberstaffs. “Nothing like me, Skywalker? Yet here you stand, Fallen, and a traitor to the Jedi!” 

A dark grin crosses Anakin’s face, making Krell recoil, and Anakin basks in the fear. He ignites his saber, gathering his strength in the Force, and Anakin feels the kyber under his hands growing hot, splintering under his power, under his rage, and suddenly, it cracks. 

It _bleeds._

His vision shows him that nothing has changed, that he holds a familiar pulsing blue in his hands, but he _looks_ with the Force and sees that the blade he holds is a snarling crimson, and he feels a strange delight at seeing the colour. The colour of the Force, dancing around him with swirls of blue and black, and whispering in his ear, urging him to use it, to command it, to wield the power as the Son of the Force. 

He can see the Krell sees it too, eyes wide with terror, but the traitor brandishes his saberstaffs as he prepares to battle. “What are you?” the besalisk hisses. 

Anakin thinks to the time he had asked the same question to the Son when the Force-wielder tried to trick him with the vision of his mother. He had not understood the Son’s answer then, but he does now. He looks into Krell’s eyes and sees his own reflection, twisted in the Force with the same terrifying presence as the Son, and he gives Krell the same answer he was given on Mortis.

“Your fate.”

\--

When Rex arrives at the clearing, there's too much red. 

He’s seen blood before. He’s seen brothers come back with injuries too horrific to describe, and he’s seen it again and again. He’s been tortured before. But… to have shot at his own brothers - to have killed them - it is torture of a different kind. 

Over a thousand casualties on both sides. Rex knows with a heavy heart that he contributed to at least thirty of them. With Krell’s flagship damaged, his legion had brought down their gunships, and the 501st had used them in battle. Rex had ordered their use, and had told them to disengage far too late. 

According to recon reports from the air, Rex’s brothers had seen a duel between Anakin and Krell, leaving Rex without a shadow of a doubt that Krell is a traitor. He's well aware that the only person capable of executing General Krell is General Skywalker. He's well aware that, as a clone soldier, he should have no role in Krell's execution, even if he wants to be. He's also well aware that General Skywalker _likely_ wouldn't mind letting Rex take the shot. That is, if there was anything left of Krell after General Skywalker was done with him. 

He finds all thoughts vanishing when he sees the clearing. There should be flashes of sabers, bright blades of blue and green, but this place is red, red, red with blood dripping from the trees and red from the unsteady plasma blade that glows from a familiar lightsaber hilt held by a large figure. Rex’s stomach turns and every instinct of a soldier abandons him in that instant as he freezes under the gaze of golden eyes that should be blue. He can swear that whatever it is in front of him wears the body of his General - whatever the _kriff_ that demon is - is wrong, is alien, is _terrifying_ , a red saber-blade in one hand and a bloody heart in the other, with gargoyle’s wings unfurling from its back to stretch across the sky and row upon row of venomous teeth. The creature with the body of his General opens his mouth wide, too wide, wide enough that it opens to its ears, and it says with his General’s and something _else’s_ voice, “I swear to you, Rex, our men have been avenged.” 

Rex looks down, looks at the steam rising from the foliage on the ground, but only now, he realizes that this isn't foliage but the remains of General Krell. The besalisk's face is contorted in agony, his torso split open from chin to belt, and the smell of blood tells Rex that the red he sees in the clearing comes from Krell. 

His eyes blink, then look up, finding the blue ones of a perfectly human Anakin Skywalker, seeing the perfectly normal blue blade from the lightsaber, and all he can say is, "Thank you, sir, but I do wish you had left something for me."

He throws up when he returns to the _Resolute II._ He can't get the image out of his mind. The image of the demon with the voice of his General, a red lightsaber in one hand and a bloody besalisk heart in the other. He can't get the smell of blood out of his nostrils or the sight of the fried corpse of Pong Krell. His stomach heaves and he retches again with nothing left to vomit. 

Worst of all, he can't get the feeling of vindication out of his mind, nor can he get rid of the regret of spitting on the corpse of the traitor, because he can't forget the feeling of his finger on the trigger that killed his brothers. 

\--

**Now.**

From her apartment at the _500 Republica,_ miles and miles away from the Senate dome that burns on the horizon, Padmé crouches low in the ruins of her bedroom, hidden behind an overturned table. The wall in front of her is partially blown out, plaster coating the floor in a thin white sheen, with loose wires and metal beams sticking out haphazardly from the wreckage. 

She’s down to her last power pack. 

Jesse and his brothers are weary, worn down from hours of fighting the Coruscant guard, but they still hold strong, protecting her and the other senators taking shelter with her. Several clone battalions had been completely de-chipped, including the 501st and the 212th, but they hadn’t been able to get to the clones stationed on Coruscant in time. They hammer at the blockade that has been set up at her apartment door, but Padmé knows it’s only a matter of time before they push through along with the elite Senate guard. 

Bail is at her side, as is Satine, whose hands are shaking. In the past two hours, she’s had to take the lives of so many. Bail, too, is shaking, although for different reasons. The betrayal of the Chancellor, broadcast across the holonet as he boasted, had cut Padmé to the core too. She had trusted him, thought of him as a mentor, had _helped him get into power!_ \- and he had turned out to be the Sith behind both sides of the war. 

Artoo and Threepio stand in front of them, providing as much of a physical barrier as they can with their metal bodies. Artoo’s electric prod and sawblade are out, ready to fight, but Threepio is weaponless. Instead, he babbles and babbles and tries to reassure them, even though Padmé is certain his anxiety levels are through the roof. 

A small part of Padmé wants to laugh. Threepio, ignoring his anxieties and being optimistic? The world truly must be ending. 

A part of the barrier explodes outwards, debris knocking away one of the 501st and flying towards the senators. Threepio extends his arms, catching the debris with his body and denting the golden plates. Silently, Padmé vows to pay for the best oil bath and maintenance for him and Artoo when this is over. It will be over. They’ll get through this. 

Blue blaster bolts begin flying from both sides. There’s only ten of the 501st out of the twenty-five that had arrived to protect her. She can hear Satine beside her, screams thick with tears as she pulls the trigger again and again and again and hits the mark each time. Though she is a pacifist, Padmé knows Satine well enough to understand that growing up on Mandalore has left her with skills she wishes she never had. To Padmé’s right, Bail’s shots are less precise yet they land nonetheless, striking shoulders and limbs.

Though she’s not wounded - not yet, at least - Padmé feels a hole in her chest with every shot she takes. The Senate guard’s armor is laced with a material - what it is, she can’t tell - that makes stun bolts ineffective against them. Only lethal rounds can take them down, which means that in the heat of battle, Jesse and his brothers in the 501st have no choice but to shoot their own brothers in the Coruscant guard to death. There’s no time to switch between stun and kill effectively. 

A grenade makes it through Jesse and his men, landing behind Padmé. She stares at it for a second, and she hears Bail’s quiet sigh of resignation. It’s over. 

Something metal shoves her aside, falling forwards and ripping the ruined blankets from her bed. It takes another second for her to register that it’s Threepio, that he’s deliberately fallen on top of the grenade and pulled the blanket on top of him, and that’s all Padmé registers before Satine tackles her and Bail and the grenade goes off. 

Her ears ring and she feels Satine stiffen as something strikes her back. Groaning, Satine carefully rolls over, and Padmé surveys the scene. Threepio had taken the brunt of the shrapnel, metal bits embedded in the golden plates, but the blast had torn him apart. The blanket had been able to prevent parts of him from flying off, but one of his arms had struck Satine in the back as she protected Padmé and Bail. “I do believe I’ve cracked a few ribs,” the Duchess says hoarsely.

“It’ll be over soon,” Padmé says with a false conviction, and Satine cracks a laugh that has her wincing. They’re both politicians. They know what an empty reassurance is. 

She catches sight of Threepio's head - dented, eyepiece dark, but still mostly in one piece. Good. Anakin can recover him afterwards. 

Beyond the bedroom, there’s the sound of flames, then screams, and Padmé’s stomach sinks as her mind jumps at the conclusion that a flametrooper has arrived. A careful peek over the table and broken wall shows her that her deduction was wrong - rather, Artoo floats triumphantly over the burning oil with his rocket boosters out, flying over the screaming Senate guard. He follows up with a careful spray of extinguishing steam, putting out the flames on the ground before they can burn the apartment.

“Seems like your droid has the hang of things,” Bail jokes, but Padmé can hear the strain in his voice. He’s terrified and exhausted, as is she and the 501st squad guarding them, but there’s little they can do. If they leave, they will be shot out of the air. Their only hope is to hold out until the Jedi can take down Palpatine. 

Padmé looks out the cracked window to the flames of the Senate Dome, and she hopes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a personal headcanon that all clone battalions have their own sign language to communicate and that clone leadership has their own to prevent sensitive information from being leaked out, be it through a defector or through mind-tricks.

**Then.**

“General,” Cody calls out to Obi-Wan, “I have a transmission from Captain Rex.”

Umbara had been hard on them. A traitor, setting brother against brother. Cody had reported the numbers to Obi-Wan with a hollow voice, and he had felt the heaviness of the sorrow permeating the Force. He’d also felt the shadow of the Dark Side settle below on the planet. From the flagship, he could not sense where it came from specifically, but he knows now - it likely was Krell. 

He can’t really sense Anakin. Obi-Wan knows his former padawan is alive, but that’s all he can sense. And it worries him - the communications array on the ground had been hit, only allowing for short-range transmissions within a one-mile radius, and Obi-Wan has been out of contact with Anakin and the 501st for nearly a week. Thankfully, the battle of Umbara had come to an end quickly with a Republic victory, but Obi-Wan suspects there’s something amiss. 

“Patch it through,” Obi-Wan says, and Cody does so with a nod. The blue hologram of his padawan’s captain appears, haggard and worn, but there’s something else. There’s a spark of fear in Rex’s eyes, something which both Obi-Wan and Cody pick up on immediately, and they exchange a worried glance. 

“General, Cody,” Rex begins, “I am pleased to inform you that the traitor, Pong Krell, has been arrested and executed by General Skywalker.” 

“Wish I could’ve taken the shot,” Cody mutters quietly, but not quietly enough. 

Rex cracks a humorless smile. “Me too.” The smile disappears. Something is odd - Rex is blinking strangely, his fingers twitching oddly, and Cody’s breath hitches slightly. “There is... sensitive information on the reports.”

“I understand.” Obi-Wan carefully hides his frown at Cody’s reaction. “Shall we meet with you on your flagship?”

“Yes, sir,” Rex says. 

“Very well. We’ll be over shortly.” At Rex’s nod, Obi-Wan cuts the comm, then turns to Cody in concern. “Are you alright?”

“As well as I could be, sir,” Cody says, but his hands flash in the sign language of the 212th. _OWN-LANGUAGE-CLONE-LEADERSHIP._ “Shall I get your ship ready?” _HIS-GENERAL-CAPTAIN-WORRY-TROUBLE._

Obi-Wan feels his stomach drop. _Anakin._ Outwardly, none of his worries manifest as he speaks. “Yes please, Cody.” But he can tell that Cody can read him well enough to understand. 

Obi-Wan reaches out through the Force again, prodding at his link with Anakin, and sighs when he reaches a wall once again. He’ll figure it out once he arrives on the _Resolute II._

\--

The debrief is long. Anakin shows up late, his presence tightly closed off, and he barely acknowledges Obi-Wan save for purely professional questions and remarks throughout the hours that they pour over the report. Once it’s over, Anakin disappears before Obi-Wan can even get a word in, and Rex looks at Obi-Wan with sympathy.

“It’s been different since he took down Krell,” he says with uncertainty. He sees Obi-Wan’s worried face, and rushes to reassure him. “I don’t think he’s… turned to ‘dark side’, as you Jedi say. He doesn’t feel like Ventress, and he still goes out of his way to save all the men he can. But he’s not himself.”

“I can tell,” Obi-Wan says. “I’ll see if I can find him.” 

Rex snorts without humor. “Good luck. No one’s been able to find out outside of mandatory meetings.”

\--

After an hour of fruitless searching, Obi-Wan stops by his quarters on the ship. While there should technically only be one room for one general, Obi-Wan had stopped by the _Resolute_ and then the _Resolute II_ enough that the crew had just set up his own place. Sighing, Obi-Wan finds himself in front of the mirror of the fresher again, splashing his face with cold water in an attempt to stay awake. 

He’s slept maybe ten hours in the past five days.

_Anakin, where are you?_

Falling even deeper into the Force than he has in the past hour, Obi-Wan reaches out, willing himself to _find_ Anakin. In the back of his mind, a memory comes forth of him searching for Anakin on Mortis with nothing but a vague feeling.

The Force lurches and he feels the world tilt, then fall back into rights again. He opens his eyes in shock and finds himself, not in his own quarters, but in an empty storage bay that’s shielded so strongly it’s no wonder he hasn’t been able to find it before. 

Well, not quite empty. 

A Dark presence behind him which makes him think of the Son lashes out and Obi-Wan acts on instinct. He’s so entrenched in the Force that he doesn’t even try to reach for his lightsaber when he turns, flinging out his hands, and his breath catches when the same blue-green mist he had seen create the Dagger dissolves his hands and leaps forward. 

\--

At the Altar of Mortis, Daughter had watched Obi-Wan with sorrow in her eyes as she watched him hold the Dagger. “He who wields the blade will be able to control my brother,” she had said, and her voice had had a ring of prophecy to it. He hadn’t truly understood what it meant.

 _Oh,_ he thinks as the blue-green mist flows from his hands and holds down his opponent. _That’s what it means._

Kneeling before him, the golden eyes of Anakin Skywalker stare back. 

\--

**Now.**

Her chest burns.

As the leader of Mandalore and the Neutral Systems, Satine usually has little cause to fly to Coruscant. A funeral for a colleague, however, is reason enough, and she had flown in with expectations of a somber visit lightened with maybe one or two visits with dear friends. 

(And a certain Jedi.)

She’s no fool. She had seen the public broadcast of Palpatine’s betrayal, had heard the commands he had given. _Order twenty-three. Order sixty-six. Order one-eleven._ Although she may not know what each order specified, she has a good guess. 

She had been at Padmé’s apartments for a short visit. Bail Organa had dropped by, too, as the colleague had been a good friend of Padmé’s, but as they watched the broadcast that showed Palpatine’s betrayal, a squad of clones from the 501st had arrived just as the commands had gone out.

They had fortified the apartment. There was no way to leave by speeder - all ships on Coruscant were being shot down from the sky the moment the commands had gone out. Then the Senate guard, alongside the troopers of the Coruscant guard, had begun their attack.

There’s so much death around her. 

Part of her is wondering why they aren’t blowing the entire apartment up. It would certainly be easier for them. 

Satine carefully inches her way to cover, wincing as her cracked ribs flare in protest at the movement. The sound of blasters firing over her begins to dwindle as the squad from the 501st and her friends take down their opponents, and finally, there’s blessed silence. 

Well, silence in the immediate area. They can still hear the noise from outside.

Padmé takes a quick look at her and rushes into the ruins of her ‘fresher, coming back with a small first aid kit that they both know is inadequate. “Satine,” she begins, but she stops when one of the clones comes by. 

“I got it, Senator. We’re all trained in the basics of field care.” 

Padmé nods, handing him the kit. “Thank you, trooper.”

As the trooper carefully looks over Satine’s back, she stares out of the shattered glass of the apartment. From the distance, the Jedi Temple is lit with the blue glow of energy shields. A part of Satine wishes she had gone to find Obi-Wan sooner. The last time she had seen him was months ago. If only she had arrived perhaps a day sooner, gone to meet him earlier-

No. She shakes herself out of those thoughts. It is foolish to brood during wartime. She will survive this, as will he, that heroic bastard. She really does hope that this will all be over soon, because although the trooper’s touch is gentle as he carefully winds bandages around her injuries, Satine is sure that she’s starting to see things that aren’t there. The faint haze of smoke around her should be grey and not blue-green, and she swears that for a moment, she can see Obi-Wan’s eyes, watching her with warmth and a touch of worry. She imagines that she can see him reaching out for her, a frown marring his face as he chastises her for being reckless enough to be injured, as if it isn’t entirely hypocritical of him-

She sucks in a sharp breath. She can feel Obi-Wan’s hand on her shoulder, pulsing and warm, and she swears that her breathing has suddenly eased and that the pain in her chest has lessened. Obi-Wan smiles, caresses her cheek, and his image dissolves into the smoke that looks less blue-green and more grey. 

“Duchess, are you alright?” the trooper asks urgently. Satine turns to see him, Bail, and Padmé watching her with worry. 

“Yes, thank you,” she says, still feeling the phantom caress on her cheek. “I’m quite alright.”

\--

**Then.**

He should feel afraid, he thinks, remembering the Well of the Dark Side on Mortis. Obi-Wan still remembers the way his stomach had plunged when he had seen the poisonous yellow in his former apprentice’s eyes. The same colour is watching him now, predatory and trapped, and completely, utterly foreign, yet he’s not thrown into the same terror and betrayal. Not yet, at least. 

“Anakin?” Obi-Wan’s voice comes out uncertain, a slight tremble shaking his tone. 

A smirk that should look familiar but isn’t appears on Anakin’s face. “Master _,_ ” he replies easily, sounding like he was greeting Obi-Wan from a table at Dex’s. He does not look particularly surprised at Obi-Wan’s newfound ability with the blue-green mist. “I see you’ve found your way in.”

“You were shielding rather strongly,” Obi-Wan quips back. He doesn’t address the fact that the power of the shields are beyond anything he had ever felt from Anakin before. Neither does Obi-Wan address the fact that he was in his quarters one moment, and in this place the next when he had fallen deeply into the Force. That… that will be for later. Right now, his focus is on Anakin. “Is there a particular reason why you’ve been avoiding everyone?”

Anakin’s laughter bounces off the walls, harsh and condescending and _wrong_. “Don’t play dumb, Obi-Wan. It doesn’t suit you.” His eyes flicker around, considering the mist, before looking back at Obi-Wan. “Let me go.”

The command presses against his shields, demanding to be heard, to be _obeyed_ , but Obi-Wan shrugs it off with ease. Part of him is reeling in betrayal, because this golden-eyed human entrenched in the Dark cannot _possibly_ be Anakin. But there’s a part of Obi-Wan that accepts it, just as that same part accepts that his hands seem to have dissolved into the same mist that made the Dagger of Mortis. “How do I know you won’t be the death of me?”

Anakin’s smile is disarming. “Don’t say that, Master,” he says, his tone charming. “You’re the closest thing I have to a Father.”

(There’s something odd about how the Force moved when Anakin said _Father._ )

A non-answer. Privately, Obi-Wan scoffs, but he relents nonetheless - Anakin is usually more open with his answers when he gets his way. “Very well,” Obi-Wan says, but they can both hear the doubt in his voice.

There’s something strange. The Force is not whispering with warnings of aggression - not after Anakin had attacked him, likely reacting on instinct. He feels Dark, but not malicious. It goes against everything Obi-Wan has ever been taught as a Jedi. But there’s something staying his hand - a murmur from the Force itself, telling him to _wait._

Anakin stands, graceful as a loth-cat. There’s something odd about the shape of his shadow - it’s fuzzy, unclear, its movements somewhat _off._ He rolls his shoulders. “I’ve been... learning to control the changes that have happened.” Golden eyes bore into Obi-Wan’s, then look downwards at Obi-Wan’s hands, still fading in and out of reality with blue-green wisps. “Rex saw me,” Anakin confesses in a quiet voice. “He shouldn’t have.”

“He saw you _what?_ ” Obi-Wan asks. Anakin had accused him, multiple times, of speaking in riddles rather than being straightforward, and damned if that isn’t coming back to bite him. 

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin says abruptly, and there’s something so odd about seeing eyes poisoned by the Dark Side look so pleading and soft. “Look at me.”

Obi-Wan frowns. “What do you think I-”

“No,” Anakin interrupts, his voice heavy and tinged with fear. “ _Look at me._ ”

\--

Far away on Dathomir, Mother Talzin opens her eyes from deep meditation, concern lining her face. 

She is alone, but not for long. She stands, smoothing her cloak, and seeks out Old Daka. 

The elderly Nightsister is facing the entrance when Talzin finds her. “You have felt it too,” Daka says, her voice gravelly. 

“Yes.” Talzin closes her eyes, extending her senses beyond the home of the clan and into the forests of Dathomir. “Because of it, the rancors of Dathomir are becoming restless. We must be cautious and prepare the clan.”

“Do not be hasty in your fear, Mother.” Of all the sisters, Daka still actively gives Talzin counsel, secure in her wisdom found by age. “The unrest will not disturb our home for long. Where the Fanged God resides, the Winged Goddess follows soon after.”

“You are right in your counsel, as always, sister.” Talzin’s true smile is rare, shown only in flashes to all the sisters, but it shines through in the company of her oldest and most respected friend. “But there is something else. A different One. A parent.”

“Yes,” Daka muses. “The Balance.”

“The Jedi Prophecy?” Talzin asks. She is aware that many Jedi believe in their ‘Chosen One’ who would balance the ‘Force’, just as she is aware that many others do not believe in prophecy. But Talzin is a witch. She knows there is truth in divination. 

“Yes,” Daka replies. “And no. The parent maintains, but does not bring balance. Not all is as it seems.” 

\--

Obi-Wan _looks_ , and he sees the remnants of the Son in Anakin, gargoyle wings of shadow stretching to encompass the room. Anakin’s presence wavers, a beautiful mixture of red and blue and black, blurring in and out of the plane of the Force and into reality. A mouth with too many rows of teeth slashes open Anakin’s face from ear to ear, stretching wide enough to swallow a man whole. “Do you see me now, Master?” the creature asks with Anakin’s voice, echoing with something _else._ “Do you _understand_?”

Obi-Wan is sure he should be terrified. No amount of Jedi training can prepare anyone for this - to face the manifestation of the Dark Side in the body of his closest friend. 

But he’s not afraid. There’s something in Anakin’s voice - a tremor, barely noticeable, but asking - begging - to be heard. Underneath the arrogance, the false malice, there is a young boy, shaking, asking for his _brother-father-master_ to help him. 

He’s three steps away from Anakin, then the Force lurches and suddenly he’s right in front of him, wrapping his _brother-student-son_ in a hug. 

Anakin stiffens, and for a heart-rending moment, Obi-Wan feels afraid - afraid that Anakin will push him away, because Obi-Wan rarely _hugs_ \- then Anakin all but collapses into his embrace, a choked noise coming from his throat. His shields loosen, allowing Obi-Wan to sense the fear that has been plaguing Anakin for the past week that he has been masking with aloofness and arrogance. “You aren’t evil, Anakin,” Obi-Wan whispers, and the Force sings with truth. 

“But I’ve Fallen,” Anakin mumbles into his shoulder, and Obi-Wan can hear how tightly he is trying to control himself. “I’ve failed you.” 

Obi-Wan doesn’t understand it either - how could one be Fallen to the Dark and not Evil? He doesn’t know. What he does know, however, is that his former student is shaking in his arms, terrified of the changes that have happened, and slowly losing himself to the Dark. “You have not,” Obi-Wan says firmly. “You are still here, Anakin. And I am here for you.” 

In a moment of weakness, Anakin sags, nearly falling to his knees before Obi-Wan gently sits down with him. The wings of shadow from Anakin’s back curl into themselves, collapsing under the weight of his fear. “Master, _what is happening to me?_ ”

The helplessness in his voice breaks Obi-Wan’s heart, making him tighten his hold. “I don’t know, Anakin.” Obi-Wan closes his eyes, focusing on the Force, and concentrates on sending as much _loveacceptancelight_ through their bond as he can. “But I will help you. By the Force, I swear it.”

When he opens his eyes again, the Force is tinged a soft blue-green, and the wings of shadow seem to fold into themselves, collapsing into nothingness. Anakin’s Force-presence calms, the crackling red-blue-black settling into a muted, more familiar presence, and Obi-Wan releases his deep hold on the Force. He pulls back, looking into his apprentice’s eyes, and they are a shining blue. 

“You aren’t evil, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says again, and he believes it. “The Force-Wielders seem to have left us with gifts. We will figure out how to use them.”

“But the Council,” Anakin gasps, and Obi-Wan can understand his fear. “The Council will-”

“We will not tell the Council,” he says firmly, a smile curling the corners of his mouth at Anakin’s surprise. Obi-Wan knows too well that as much as he wants to deny it, some of the Council’s decisions are motivated by fear. “Besides, I do believe that I have to learn to understand the changes I am going through as well.” 

Anakin looks down, watching Obi-Wan’s fingers dissolve into mist and reform again, and rewards his master with a small grin.

\--

Hours later, Anakin finally takes the shields down from the storage bay and emerges from it with Obi-Wan, and they are found by an exasperated Captain Rex.

“There you are,” he says with no lack of irritation that’s softened by the fondness colouring the Force around him. “It’s been three hours and we’re ready to head back to Coruscant. General Kenobi, Cody wants to know if you’ll be staying on our ship or heading back to the _Negotiator_ before we depart.”

Obi-Wan offers an apologetic smile. “I’ll be staying, Rex. Thank you.” 

Rex huffs, mumbling “I told them so!” under his breath and nodding, before turning to Anakin in concern. “General Skywalker, are you alright?”

Obi-Wan can sense Anakin’s tension as he stiffens, uncertain over Rex’s feelings. Obi-Wan was aware that Rex had likely seen a glimpse of Anakin’s _other_ form, which was properly terrifying and at least a little _inhuman_ , but the only thing that Rex was releasing into the Force was a genuine concern. “I’m… alright, Rex. I’m sorry for avoiding you all in the past week.” 

This does nothing to soothe Rex, whose concern only increases. “Are you sure, General?” 

Anakin hesitates, and Obi-Wan sends him an encouraging prod through their bond. Rex is a good man - he’s sure of it. Emboldened, Anakin begins, “I- Rex, on Umbara, when you saw-”

A sudden wave of revulsion and horror sweeps through the Force, cutting Anakin off. He recoils, sudden hurt colouring his presence and making his eyes fleck yellow. Obi-Wan himself feels a flicker of anger, although there is more resignation, for it is completely within Rex’s right to be horrified, for Anakin had recalled that Rex had seen him as the manifestation of the Dark, holding a bloody besalisk heart after he had _ripped it out of Krell’s chest_ -

The wave subsides, immediately followed by a different terror and by guilt, with Rex reaching out uncertainly as if he made to embrace Anakin and then thought better of it. “No, sir, I’m not-” Rex shakes his head, muttering something that sounds vaguely like “Damn Jedi!” before trying again, haltingly. “I’m not- _we_ are all worried, sir. That the traitor did something to you that we can’t- that we can’t help with.”

Anakin’s eyes are still wide with hurt, looking like a kicked puppy. “I sensed revulsion from you,” he says, and it comes out sounding very much like an accusation. 

Rex winces, looking very much reluctant to be in this conversation, before he gathers himself and looks Anakin in the eye. “I’m not proud of it, sir, and I know I shouldn’t think this way, but I thought you gave the traitor exactly what he deserved.” 

Oh. 

Obi-Wan is aware that Rex isn’t a Jedi, and that he is a good man, and although a part of him is shocked, Obi-Wan cannot say that he doesn’t understand. He does. Jedi Master as he is, Obi-Wan had never felt a stronger desire to run someone through with his lightsaber than when Cody had reported with a hollow voice the number of casualties they had taken. Beside him, Anakin blinks with a shocked understanding even as they both sense Rex bracing himself, as if they would rebuke him for admitting such a thing. 

Obi-Wan imagines himself being tricked into duelling a masked opponent, only to find once he had killed the opponent, that it was Anakin, eyes glassy with death caused by his hand. Then he imagines it a hundredfold, imagines the pain, and he cannot bring himself to judge Rex for his emotions. 

Anakin doesn’t smile, but his eyes soften. “I understand.” 

There’s muted relief now in the Force, coming from both Rex and Anakin. “I think,” Obi-Wan says gently, “that we should get some rest.” 

Rex agrees with a quick “Yes, sir!” that has Obi-Wan beginning to move towards his quarters before he stumbles over his own two feet. Rex raises an eyebrow, suspicion crawling over his features. “How long has it been since you’ve slept more than three hours, sir?”

“Ah...” Obi-Wan stutters, trying to evade the question. “Well, I’ve been-” At the completely unimpressed look he gets from both Anakin and Rex, Obi-Wan gives up. “Since before the campaign,” he grumbles. 

“Right, that’s it,” Anakin says, and Obi-Wan finds him hoisted into the air through the Force. “I’m carrying you to your quarters, old man, and you are going to sleep.” 

“Anakin!” Obi-Wan protests, finding no help at all in the amused face of Captain Rex. “You know I was going to-”

“Pour over reports after getting me to sleep? Of course you were.” At Anakin’s words, Rex breaks composure at last and laughs, all earlier tension disappearing as though it had never been there. He waves in temporary farewell as Anakin heads towards their quarters, taking great pleasure in levitating Obi-Wan in awkward positions.

“Anakin!”

\--

Far, far away, at the Jedi Temple, Ahsoka Tano bolts awake after a night of dreams and visions, and as she falls deeply into the Force, she stares at her own hands in wonder which glow with Light.

\--

**Before.**

“ _You cannot imagine what pain it is to have such love for your children and realize they could tear the very fabric of our universe_.”


	4. Interlude: Outtake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a scene that I wrote when I first started that no longer fits with the story, so consider it a 'deleted scene', if you will. It's skippable in terms of the story, but i'm a little attached to it and wanted to share it anyways!

**Then.**

When Ahsoka goes to sleep, her nightmares are hazy, unclear, a murky fog of confusion and boiling rage. She thinks she sees her lightsabers, green and yellow clashing against blue and blue, and she wakes up, shivering from a cold that has nothing to do with the temperature of the air. 

She walks quietly to the fresher, intending to get an early start since it’s already 0600 hours and the sun has just begun to rise, and she stops as she catches a glimpse of her hands. 

Her veins are darkened, lined with a black poison, and a three-pronged puncture wound that came from a creature that no longer exists throbs on her arm. 

It’s probably a dream, she thinks. Fighting the rising panic within her, she draws on the Light, pulling on the soft strength of the Temple to soothe her terror. She gets no further than a step when her vision goes white. She can swear that she saw her arms glow, that the blinding light that had overcome her vision had come from herself. 

When she looks at her arms again, they are normal, orange-skinned, with no blackened veins or bite mark. 

“Ahsoka?” 

At the sound of her name, she turns, seeing her half-asleep master rubbing his eyes. His eyes are still half-closed, heavy with sleep, and she can see that his irises are poisonous gold. 

He blinks, and they are back to their normal blue colour. 

“You’re up too?” she asks quietly, hoping her voice doesn’t tremble.

“Just a bad dream,” he says, and she winces sympathetically. War does not leave any soldier without scars, physical or mental. “I thought I saw-” 

_ (-a flash of Light.)  _

Anakin hesitates, then shakes his head. “Never mind. It was part of my dream.” 

Ahsoka nods, then gives him a small smile as she heads off to the fresher again, intending to get ready for the day. 

She knows he had seen whatever change had overcome her in that second just as surely as she knows that she hadn’t imagined his golden irises. 

It doesn’t worry her, and that in itself worries her. 


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, okay. This chapter fought me tooth and nail, and I'm not 100% happy with it, but here it is!
> 
> I'll try my best to update every Friday, but some weeks may have more than one update ;)

**Now.**

The skies over Coruscant are beautiful in their familiarity just as they are terrifying in its unfamiliarity. 

A battle of ships, Republic against Separatist, is not something Plo Koon has never seen before. This is something which has happened so much that he knows it almost intimately - the Force swirling around him, turning his starfighter into an extension of himself, unable to tell where his hands end and the ship handles begin. From his cockpit, the flashes of blue and red turn his view into a vivid painting, creating a scene which he can almost believe will be studied by younglings in history textbooks in the future. 

The most terrifying thing about this battle is that it is nearly impossible to tell who is the enemy and who is the friend. 

It is simple to discern the Separatist ships. They have not changed in design, relentless bolts of red flying across the skies to attack Republic forces. What is difficult to discern, however, is which of the clones are friends, and which ones have fallen under the control of the Sith. 

Plo’s heart aches. At the insistence of Commander Wolffe, they had exchanged starfighters, his Commander refusing to back down. “They want _you_ because you’re a Jedi, General,” Wolffe had snapped, his brothers nodding behind him. “Your own fighter is marked and it will be targeted more. Let _me_ take it.”

He could sense his Commander’s resolution in the Force. “And if I order you to allow me to take the fighter?” 

“With all due respect, sir,” Wolffe had said, “shove it.” 

Plo had felt a deep sadness settle within him then, unwilling to sacrifice any of his men, but well aware that he could not prevent it. In an emotion close to despair, he tried one last time. “And if we do not fly my ship and I simply take one of our spare fighters?”

Wolffe had looked at him with an expression close to annoyance. “They know you’ll be fighting with us, sir. They’ll analyze our flying tactics and deduce which one is yours in a moment.” His face had softened then, hard lines smoothing out into a gentler visage. “We need you alive, General. You’re our only chance at telling which of our brothers are-” He swallowed audibly, then continued. “-are in control of their own bodies.”

Plo was a Jedi Master. He did not _hate._ But he very, very much disliked the understanding that his Commander was right. The only way to tell which of the clones in the air had been de-chipped and which ones were not was through the Force. 

Unhappily, he had agreed. 

And within five minutes of the start of the battle, after the wayward Republic forces had focused fire on Plo’s starfighter, unaware that Wolffe was manning it, and they had shot it down. Plo had watched with a heavy heart, releasing his anger continuously into the Force. 

He cannot lose control. Not now. 

With the Coruscant guard under the impression that Plo had died, the battle had evened out into a three-way fight, Separatists against de-chipped clones against the chipped clones. Having fallen deeply into the Force, Plo barely feels the movements of his hands, nor is he conscious of himself using the Force to press the controls to mark which ships are friendly in the computer system. Deftly, he twists his hands just _so_ , spiralling with a breathtaking precision which takes him in-between a series of turbolaser shots which would have destroyed a lesser pilot. 

He cannot afford any mistakes. He knows well the consequences of what would happen should the Wolfpack lose - an orbital bombardment is not something that Coruscant will survive. 

He will get through this. For Coruscant. For the Jedi. For the galaxy.

(For little ‘Soka.)

The last time he had seen her, she had revealed her true presence in the Council Chambers, a shining presence of Light which far outshone even Master Yoda and rivalled the combined presence of all twelve councillors. What he had seen, deep into the Force, had blurred with the planes of reality, her figure wavering constantly between a young togruta and what resembled a seraphim of legend. 

“Masters,” she had said, and he could have sworn that he heard with her the voices of the Jedi past, “Coruscant will soon fall under assault by the Sith Master. Not all the clones have been de-chipped.” She had turned to him, the blue of her eyes and montrals now shining a beautiful green (the colour of life! He had thought), and he had felt as though he were staring into the eyes of a stranger. “Master Plo, we need you to take your battalion to protect the planet from above. Can you do it?” 

He had looked at her then, aglow with a blinding light that shone with such strength that he suspected it could render a non-Force-Sensitive unconscious, and he had taken in the wings which had unfurled from her back, shimmering and spreading across all corners of the Council chambers. It had hit him then, the terrible, terrible certainty that little ‘Soka had the power to crush all of them without so much as lifting a finger, and he had nearly shrunk into himself at the thought of her bearing the weight of so much responsibility. 

Instead, he had released his emotions into the Force, letting go of the shock which had felt like a permanence in the past hour of revelations, and he had straightened and accepted her task. 

She had given him a smile then, gleaming and sharp, and she had reached for him with fingers which seemed to elongate into claws before she grabbed his arm and his world dissolved into a blinding Light. 

He had found himself in the hangar when the world had returned to him, the cries of the Council and the approval of little (but she wasn’t little anymore, was she?) ‘Soka ringing in his ears, the Wolfpack already nearly done their preparations. 

In the present, he can sense the battle below. He can sense the death of each Jedi, their lights going out second by second, and it pulls at him. But there is something else - there is hope, a feeling held not only by the living beings, but also by the Force itself.

So he hopes. 

\--

**Then (Before Umbara).**

The carbonite freezing fails. 

It’s a simple error, brought about by a droid who had moved in just the wrong motion at just the wrong moment. As the reprogrammed B1 inspects the frozen troopers, the ship lurches, hit by a small wayward asteroid. The B1 droid stumbles and hits her carbonite slab, and Ahsoka unfreezes too early. 

It’s too late to turn back. The blockade at Lola Sayu has just gotten wind of them on the sensors. If they turn back, they will be shot down. 

Artoo still relays the same instructions to the droids. Osi Sobeck still orders the bioscan of the ship. Ahsoka holds her breath, hidden in the back, and she thinks, _I am the still air. I am nothing. I am not here. I am not a living thing._

If Artoo could breathe, he would be holding his breath. 

The bioscan completes. The Citadel hails their ship again, and says, “Scan complete. Proceed to docking bay 14.” 

Ahsoka releases her carefully held breath, but something itches the back of her mind. 

The Force cannot trick scanners. Not in the way that she used it. 

But what else could it be?

\--

She pulls Echo out from the wreckage of the ship, half-dead and missing an arm. Rex and his brothers are both too relieved and too worried to many any mind to her other than a hasty thanks, fussing over Echo, who she can sense will die within the next few days if he does not get help quickly. 

She misses the glance that her masters share behind her back.

Hours later, they find shelter with no whisper of danger in the Force. Privately, part of Ahsoka wishes that they _didn’t_ rescue Tarkin. He is condescending, arrogant, uptight, rude, and every picture of a military commander who believes that his position gives him the authority to act like he knows best at all times. 

She shakes her head. Those are dangerous thoughts - she needs a clear head to take care of the mission. She cannot afford distraction. 

The group settles for a moment, setting up a momentary camp to take care of Echo. His wounds have been packed in bacta and wrapped in bandages, but he’s fading quickly. And Rex knows this. He is on his knees alongside Fives beside Echo’s still form, begging for him to _stay, please hang on!_

But there is no response. 

Instead, the Force whispers to her, enticing and beautiful, and in a moment that frightens her when she thinks on it much, much later, she forgets her surroundings. She forgets the boiling rock beneath her feet, the jutting outcrops in the cliffside, the crumbling ledge upon which they rest on, and she walks as if in a trance towards the injured clone. 

There’s something odd going on around her, although she can’t place it. Distantly, she’s aware that she is not entirely in control of her actions. The Force’s whispers have grown louder, speaking to her with a gentle voice, guiding her movements as it pulls her deeper and deeper into its folds like an embrace. She’s intimately aware, now, of the presences around her, of Anakin and Obi-Wan’s startlement, of Master Piell’s sharp wariness, of Tarkin’s sudden interest and of the clones’ surprise. She can sense the breath in their lungs, she can sense the beating of their hearts, just as she can sense the fading of Echo’s. 

The Force is crooning to her now, drawing her deeper into its embrace. _Come to me, my daughter,_ it sings, and she can almost feel the tendrils of the Force wrapping around her limbs, guiding her to kneel beside the limp body of Echo. Her hand moves, reaching out, and she places a finger onto his forehead. 

_Oh,_ she thinks distantly as she finally realizes what the odd thing in her surroundings was. Her arms are aglow with the white-gold of the Daughter, washing the rocks and the lava below with its light. She senses his heart getting stronger, and just as he takes a sharp breath, she is suddenly aware of the clones - and Tarkin - collapsing to the ground. Master Piell catches them with the Force before their heads can strike the hard stone, then gently lowers them, before drawing his lightsaber, fear shining through the hard glint in his eye. “What is this?” he snarls. 

Ahsoka turns to her masters. They are watching her with an unreadable expression in their eyes, stiffness in their postures and alarm leaking through the Force. She wonders briefly if their surprise is what is causing them to be frozen, but the Force gives her the answer with sweet words which drip into her ears. _They see you, my Daughter,_ it sings. _They see you and recognize you as One of their own._

Then it moves.

She doesn’t _see_ it move, exactly, but she can tell that the Force has suddenly focused onto her masters as well. Her limbs move, with her _seeing_ more than _feeling_ her legs moving towards the other three Jedi, and she raises her hand in tandem with her masters. Then she opens her mouth and speaks for the Force.

It is a strange feeling, yet not completely unfamiliar, to be used as a vassal, as a mouthpiece for a power she still does not fully comprehend. As if from through a tunnel, she can hear her masters speaking alongside her, their voices echoing with something else. 

“ _You will not remember this moment.”_

And to her shock, Master Piell’s eyes glaze over, and he repeats their command. “I will not remember this moment.” 

If she had been less shocked, she would have noticed the unconscious bodies of the soldiers and of Tarkin repeating the same. 

Then the Force withdraws, fading to become the background murmur she is accustomed to as a Jedi Padawan, but not without a final word of triumph in her ears. 

_My Daughter,_ it sings, alluring as a siren, _you are One with me._

\--

Master Piell still dies by the anooba. In his last moments, he breaks through the mind-trick. 

“You mind-tricked me,” he gasps to Ahsoka. She feels her stomach drop.

“Master-”

“No, come. I should not have acted on my fear.” He holds her hand, and whispers to her the precious information he holds. 

As he becomes one with the Force, she asks why she could not save him the same way she saved Echo. 

_The Council would have detected the tampering of his mind, Daughter,_ it croons. _Had you not erased the memories of the others, the Council would have discovered your change. And it is not My Will for it to be found. Not yet._

She understands, and she moves to join the others.

\--

When she reviews the reports, she finds her masters to explain the discrepancy in the clone’s reports. She finds them in their quarters in a quiet discussion, half-whispered and half-telepathically. 

“Masters, the reports of every clone are similar,” she begins.

Anakin snorts. “What’s so strange about that?” 

He’s been acting a little different, since the Citadel- no, since Mortis. More passionate. More volatile. More Dark. But she knows he will never hurt her or his friends. 

She rolls her eyes, but sobers up. “They all report that Echo was near the edge of the blast that caught the ship, and that he lost his arm from the shrapnel. They also report that he was conscious, and nowhere near death.” 

Silence.

They haven’t spoken of the incident since it happened. Obi-Wan and Anakin look at her, then at each other, then back at her again, before Obi-Wan speaks. “That is, indeed, what we will tell the Council.” 

She would laugh at the absurdity of _Obi-Wan_ disobeying the _Council_ if it weren’t for the fact that part of her was terrified out of her mind. 

\--

It takes Kix two missions to realize that his Commander doesn’t breathe anymore when she sleeps. 

He traps her in the medical bay afterwards, running test after test under the worried scrutiny of his General, but he finds nothing wrong. Eventually, he gives in, working it out to be some strange Force phenomenon that he doesn’t understand. “If I didn’t know better, Commander,” he says, “I would’ve thought that you had died.”

He doesn’t see the uneasy look she exchanges with his General. 

\--

“What do you mean, you think the equipment is faulty?”

Kix blows out a breath, fear for his Commander visible in his eyes. “I did a standard eval. Temperature checks, scans, the whole lot. They came back normal.”

Rex is not quite sure where Kix is trying to go with this. “And?”

“They came back normal, but…” Kix trails off, then hardens his resolve. He is a medic - he is certain of his assessment. He has never been wrong in his diagnoses. “...but when I felt her forehead, it was cold.”

There must be a plausible explanation. “Space is cold, Kix-” 

“No, _let me finish!_ ” A sharp breath, then Rex suddenly understands even before Kix speaks. “I’ve only felt that same coldness on bodies, Rex. _On corpses._ ”

\--

She stares into her mirror in the fresher of her quarters on the _Resolute II_ , seeing not her own reflection but the same tall figure that had spoken to her on Mortis. 

“You were not meant to come back,” the not-reflection says again. “Do you understand now, child?”

She stares back, her doubts vanishing in the face of the vision. “You can become something. But _unbecoming_ … it doesn’t happen.”

The figure in the mirror smiles. It has no irises, only the whites of eyes rolled back in a dead face, its skin half-rotting to reveal the decaying muscle and bone underneath. “Yes _,”_ Ahsoka hears in her mind, hears the voice of the figure even as its mouth doesn’t change from the wide smile. “I am alive, but not in the way most of the galaxy understands, am I not? So are you, Daughter of the Force.” 

“We become one with the Force when we die,” she replies. “And I died.” 

So that was why the Citadel’s bioscan failed.

After all, it cannot pick up the Force alone. 

\--

**Now.**

Part of her wishes that she is battling Palpatine rather than facing _this._

The streets are filled with broken duracrete and glass, rubble covering the ground and dust floating through the air. There are screams of agony, screams for help, washing over Ahsoka in wave after wave of pain as she hears them call both with her ears and through the Force. Every step she takes, she sees blood, sees parts of bodies, a hand here, green severed head-tails there. Everywhere she looks, the red-gold of flames paints the walls of different buildings, battling against the fire crew, washing the normally grey-blue landscape of Coruscant a vivid red. Far above, flashes of blue explode with thunderous sounds as the Wolfpack battles to neutralize the Coruscant guard and take down the Separatist ships with minimal casualties. 

There are so many Wounds here. 

Coruscant is crying. Fear, anger, and suffering permeate the entire planet, a dark, swirling maelstrom in the Force that bleeds and screams so loudly that the plane of the Force begins blending with the plane of reality. It is only amplified on this planet - the Force is strong here, at the home of the Jedi and the Sith. 

She’s lost count of how many bodies she’s seen. She’s lost count of how many children she has pulled away from the bodies of their parents to take them to safety. She’s lost count of how many parents she’s seen clutching at the body - or what was left of it - of their child. She’s lost track of the number of people she’s seen, shell-shocked, stuttering the name of the partner that’s no longer there. For every one person she saves, she sees two more that she’s come too late to help. Each one pulls at her, an aching emptiness where instead she should be sensing flickering flames of life. 

There is hope, still. She finds it in the grateful nods of the ones she saves. She finds it in the hard glint of the eyes of the boy she had pulled from the rubble of his home, when he had patted her shoulder. She finds it in the mother sobbing in relief as she finds her baby crying but unharmed. She finds it when she catches the eyes of other medics who carry out stretchers of people - wounded, but alive. 

There’s so much pain and death around her. 

But she can’t stop. When Obi-Wan and Anakin had delegated the task of saving the people of Coruscant to her, the 501st, and the 212th, she hadn’t felt scorned at their refusal to allow her to face Palpatine. She knows her strengths. She knows that nearly all of the Jedi on Coruscant are trapped in the fortified Temple, protecting the Order from a massacre. She knows that she alone, blessed by the gifts left by the Daughter, can move so quickly and heal so many without collapsing from stress within the first hour. She’s saved so many that she’s lost count, but it’s a hollow victory. They shouldn’t have needed saving in the first place - Coruscant was supposed to be _safe._

(But truly, if the galaxy was as it should be, then the armies wouldn’t have been needed. Nobody would have needed saving, because there would be no war, no corruption. But that isn’t reality.)

Ahsoka stops at a pile of rubble. From what she remembers, this used to be a towering skyscraper, standing forty-five stories tall. Naming this smoldering heap a “pile” is an understatement - even though the entire building has collapsed on itself, the broken transparisteel and duracrete still towers far above her head. But there is a reason she has paused here. Underneath the rubble, she can sense a group of flickering lights, frantic and terrified, slowly suffocating underneath thousands of tons. 

“This is Commander Tano,” she says into her comm, voice clipped. “Requesting backup for civilian rescue.” She receives an affirmative, sends her coordinates, and waits.

There is no danger nearby - not yet, at least. She knows she can lift the rubble. But if she were to be distracted, her rescue attempt could turn into the certain death of the people clinging to life underneath the remains of the building. She needs people she trusts to watch her back. 

It pains her that the lives underneath the rubble are the only ones she can sense in the immediate area, other than the approaching clones. 

Two clones from the 501st and three more from the 212th arrive to her area quickly. Ahsoka can sense their exhaustion in the Force - she can feel the ache in their legs, the trembling of their arms, the labored breathing coming from hours of battle and rescue. “I need you all to cover me in case there is any danger,” she tells them. “I’ve scanned the area, but I’m unwilling to take chances.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they say in unison, and she gives them a grateful smile. Although their faces are covered with their helmets, she can sense that they have smiled back as well. 

“And remember,” she says firmly, “ _do not look at me._ ”

The clones nod sharply, taking up position behind her and shielding her from view with their bodies, their backs facing towards her. 

She turns back towards the rubble. Normally, lifting such a load would be left to a number of Jedi Masters, working in tandem in numbers no less than ten. But there are no other Jedi left to help. Right now, they are fighting to survive, fighting to prevent the genocide of their Order. 

Right now, it’s just her and the clones. 

(Her, and the gifts she has been given by the Daughter. Hidden from the plane of reality, but shining brightly in the Force, a white-green convor watches Ahsoka with beady eyes and coos in encouragement.)

Ahsoka closes her eyes, falling deeply into the Force with ease. She can sense the heartbeats of the clones watching her backs, can sense the breath in their lungs, can sense the exhaustion in their minds. She can feel the shape of the rubble, a crude gathering of broken durasteel pillars and shattered transparisteel and glass and furniture and much more, congregating into a massive pile of hundreds of thousands of tons which would normally take crews days to dig through. She can sense the beings underneath the rubble and their terror at being buried alive - two bothans, three wookies, and two togrutas - and their slowing breaths, suffocating with little air left to breathe. She can sense the pain of one of the bothans, their arm pinned underneath a fallen pillar, and the slowly fading life of one of the wookies, injured in the collapse. She breathes deeply, sensing the shape of the rubble through the Force, and she holds out her palms, facing upwards, and thrusts them forward.

A deafening rumble washes over Ahsoka as the rubble begins to shift, slowly beginning to rise. She curls her fingers against her palms, her arms trembling, feeling every inch of the remains of the skyscraper fighting against her, demanding to be let down. She grinds her teeth, and straining with all her might, she begins lifting her hands as the rubble begins to rise. 

The Force is _alive_ within her, making her montrals hum and her blood sing. It dances with the joy of being wielded to save life, swirling colours of white and green, whispering with the sudden hope of the survivors beneath the rubble. She senses the muted awe of the clones at her back as they hear the moving of hundreds of thousands of tons, and their desire to turn and look. 

But they are all well-trained in self-control. They understand the consequences of a single glance at Ahsoka’s form while she is so deeply entrenched in the Force. The white glow from her figure breaks through the red-gold of flames, illuminating the remains of this sector of Coruscant with a shimmering Light. 

As gently as she can, she sets the rubble down on the remains of a different building, well aware that there is no one underneath. A soft ring of dust is kicked up nonetheless, washing over the city block in a _woosh_. Sighing in relief, she falls to her knees.

Her head is ringing. The white glow of her figure disappears, leaving behind once again the red-gold of flames to pain the remains of Coruscant.

“You can turn around now,” she says to the clones, and she hears them shuffle as one of them checks on her. She waves him off, pointing towards the bunker door, three stories below, partially dented and covered in a thin layer of debris. “There they are.” 

The ache of exhaustion settles deep within her, going down into her bones. The troopers make it down quickly with their jetpacks, landing gently beside the bunker door, which opens with ease. She makes to stand and the Force blooms with a sudden joy, the relief of-

A white-hot lance of fear explodes in her mind, terror and rage and anger blasting through her training bond and knocking her back onto her knees. 

_Anakin._

She is up and running before she even registers it - the clones pay her no heed, assuming she has sensed an emergency. She knows they are competent enough to handle the survivors. 

Flight is not something she is completely accustomed to, even after she had learned what exact gifts the Daughter had left her. The wings of a griffin still feel alien on her back as she flies to the Senate dome, shielding herself with the Force so as not to be seen by any chipped clones from the ground. 

A blue-green mist forms beside her, indecipherable in its shape, but she recognizes the voice all the same. “Ahsoka, I’ve sent Commander Cody to retrieve Rex. He needs immediate medical attention - Darth Sidious has targeted your captain for a reason.”

“Thank you, Obi-Wan,” she shouts over the wind, and the mist dissolves. 

Moments later, she finds herself not one block away from the battle against Sidious, flashes of blue and red clashing against one another. Laughter, slimy and rotten, crawls over the ruins of the Senate district, and Ahsoka finds that she can never despise anyone as much as Palpatine. The three orders he had given out - twenty-three, sixty-six, and one-eleven - had ordered the destruction of all political leaders, of all Jedi, and of any and all transports on Coruscant, locking down the planet and killing thousands of innocents. 

Beside her, Cody is shaking with exhaustion and grief. “Please, Commander,” he gasps, “Rex-”

“I got it,” she assures him, and they dodge behind the remains of a wall for temporary shelter. “Cover me.”

As Cody nods and moves to take watch, she gently removes Rex’s helmet. The smell of burnt flesh immediately assaults her senses and she fights back a sob as she takes in the extent of his injuries. Burns spiderweb across his scalp and under his armor, deeply enough to leave permanent scars. When she passes her hand over his mouth, his breath is so shallow that she can barely feel it. 

But he will survive. She knows it.

She places her hands on the sides of his head and falls deeply into the Force, calling to it to save her friend’s life, and she recites to herself a mantra which has been taught to all Jedi since they could speak. 

_I am one with the Force and the Force is with me._

The tips of her fingers begin to feel warm, a white-gold glow beginning to shine. 

_I am one with the Force and the Force is with me._

Distantly, she can hear Cody shout a warning as members of the Coruscant guard find their position. 

_I am one with the Force and the Force is with me._

Rex begins to shift under her hands, the burns fading, the smell disappearing as he begins to heal. 

_I am one with the Force and the Force is with me._

She can sense his jaw moving as he begins to recite the words with her, the Force truly connecting their minds for the first time. 

_I am one with the Force and the Force is with me._

Just as Cody falls back, a glancing shot striking his shoulder, Ahsoka’s eyes snap open, and she raises a hand. The Coruscant guard flies backwards, a dozen soldiers hitting the debris with a loud crunch. She winces, but now is not the time for mourning. Not yet. 

“Rex?” Cody falls to his knees, grabbing his brother’s shoulders just as Rex lets out a soft groan, his eyes slowly flickering open. 

Rex’s eyes search his surroundings, first looking at Cody, then Ahsoka, before he shakes his head and sits up. “Cody. Commander.” He looks down at himself, then back to Ahsoka again, wincing with realization. “You saved my life.”

She gives him a smile, but doesn’t respond to his statement. Instead, she focuses on the situation at hand. “We’re not in a safe place - we need to get out of here. The Sith won’t hesitate to strike you both down.” 

She knows that they, in particular, are more vulnerable than all other clones, targeted for their close relation to her masters. Rising above the sound of the screams and the flames of Coruscant, above the sounds of battle between the Sith and her masters, the cackling laughter of Darth Sidious rings out, clear and sickening, and she, Rex, and Cody begin to move swiftly, fleeing from the scene. 

Part of her wonders if they will all make it through this - her friends, her masters. Already, she can feel the death of so many Jedi, of so many innocents, all orchestrated in the grab for power by one being. Again, she recites the mantra, finding solace in the Force’s will.

_I am one with the Force and the Force is with me._


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wew. Took a dive into less horror this chapter, and more mythology. I've always been a huge fan of fialleril's headcanons on Tatooine slave culture, so I tried my hand at Togruta culture on Shili, as well as some Nightsister mythos, based on Book of the Sith. 
> 
> Originally, this whole fic was gonna be a one-shot, but it's developed into something that most definitely has at least three more chapters after this. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!!

**Then (After Umbara).**

There is always some truth in legends. 

When Ahsoka was very young, before she met Master Plo, her mother would sing to her the traditional songs of the Togruta in the ancient dialect of Shili. She would dance with her clanmates, round and round in a circle with hands clasped, and they would shout-sing the songs late into the night until they were too tired to dance any longer. 

(She was just under three years, then. “Late into the night” meant “an hour after sundown.”)

Though she can no longer recall the faces of her clanmates or the exact movements of the dance, the music still sings in her dreams sometimes, lilting and alluring. 

_ Ase vigit male dir,  _

_ sr’ey la, sr’ey la, _

_ regit sale vole pir, _

_ sr’ey la, sr’ey la.  _

The  _ Ase _ were long used as horror stories to control the unwieldy young, who would often try to run through the forests and disappear beyond the reaches of their clan. “The  _ Ase _ live in the forests of Shili, young ones,” the clan elder would teach, solemnity in his eyes and warning on his tongue. “By the time you hear them, it is too late. Their songs will entice you and you will dance with the  _ Ase _ until you can move no longer, then they will take you to their Court and condemn you to the Wild Hunt. That is why you must always take an initiated hunter or huntress with you - the  _ Ase  _ fear only them, for they have proven their worth by the slaying of the  _ akul _ , and the  _ Ase _ will flee once they sense our hunters.” 

“Why are their songs so tempting, Elder?” one of her clanmates had asked, while another had demanded, “Why must they be enemies?”

“They are the children of the  _ Ange-ski  _ and the  _ Demo-ka _ ,” the elder had whispered in a hushed voice, and Ahsoka had been very afraid, for a child of angels and demons must be very powerful indeed. “They have the beautiful voices and faces of our protectors, children, and their head-tails are tall and long with age, but they have the malice of our enemies.” And Ahsoka had whispered with her clanmates, imagining a dangerous-looking Togruta dancing in the forests. 

Of course, when she grew older, Ahsoka came to understand that this was just a fanciful story made up to prevent young togruta from getting lost in the forests.

From what she understands, while she has long forgotten the specific words and ritual sayings to the stories, the primal Togruta that lives within her understands still the dangers and the doings of the  _ Ase _ , told night after night to the clan. The stories of her birthworld are still alive within her, living in her sleep. 

Sometimes, she dreams of the  _ Ase,  _ dreams of dancing round and round with her hands clasped with theirs. In her dreams, the  _ Ase  _ are tall, half-formless, and odd, their forms blurring in-between what she sees in the Force and what she sees with her eyes. 

After the Citadel, while her masters were away on a dangerous campaign at Umbara and she was in the process of completing her exams (it was ridiculous, she thought, she was a war commander and she still had exams!), the stories came back to her. 

In her dream, she ran hand in hand with one of the  _ Ase _ \- a knight of the Court, she thought, for he was tall and wielded a blade of leaves and stone - he had led her deeper into the forests of Shili. “Come,  _ Ashokah. _ ” Her name, spoken in its original language, sounded harsh on his tongue, but there was something familiar about his voice that pulled to her. “The Court awaits you.” 

She had looked up to the  _ Ase _ knight, taken in his skin the colour of sand and eyes which glimmered like gold, and had thanked him as she walked into the  _ Ase _ court. He had smiled at her, a smile as radiant as twin suns, yet even with all his beauty, she noticed the dirt in-between his gleaming teeth and the wildness in his gaze.

The Court was beautiful, leaves of blue-green colour shining through their veins and mystical creatures flying about the flora. Ahead, Ahsoka saw the  _ Ase _ Courtmaster, robed in the same blue-green colours of the leaves which matched his eyes, standing on the steps beside the throne. Ahsoka had felt silk upon her knees as she walked, and when she looked down, she had found that she was wearing a dress of white-gold. 

“Daughter,” said a voice, and Ahsoka had looked up into the face of the  _ Ase _ Queen. 

The clan legends had always said that the  _ Ase _ Court was ruled by a Queen, and that like all her kin, she held great power in her hands and had an entrancing beauty on her face. The elders had claimed that her voice would always be an unknown, too otherworldly to find any familiarity within her soft tones. 

But the elders were wrong. Ahsoka listened to the Queen, and heard the same voice that whispered to her as she healed Echo at the Citadel. The voice of the Force.

“Daughter,” said the Queen again, and Ahsoka could not help but notice that the Queen was utterly shapeless in the Force, her presence a kaleidoscope of blue-green, red-black, and white-gold, blending together and into her surroundings. “Do you know why I call you as such?”

Behind her, Ahsoka was aware of movement as the  _ Ase _ Knight moved to the steps, standing as if he were in position to protect the Courtmaster.

(Or as if he were the Courtmaster’s Padawan.)

Ahsoka looked into the Queen’s eyes - the same colour as her Force-presence - and she replied, “What is your reasoning?”

_ Never admit anything to the Ase, children, or they will use it against you _ , the elders had said.

The Queen stood, making for the steps. As the  _ Ase _ Knight moved as if to help her down, the Courtmaster held him back with a hand instead, and Ahsoka heard the Knight mutter under his breath, “Yes, Father.”

A smile, sharp and gleaming, graced the Queen’s lips. “My children live within you, Daughter.” And she gestured to Ahsoka’s arms, orange skin laced with a poisonous black, and Ahsoka felt a terror rise up within her as she remembered the feeling of corruption destroying her mind. 

Then she bolts awake, and though she sees nothing in the darkness of her room, when she looks into the Force, she stares at the white-gold glow of her arms in wonder. 

\--

Far, far away on Dathomir, Asajj Ventress and her sisters freeze in the midst of conversation. 

“Sisters,” she says, “do you sense the change?”

Karis’ eyes are wide. “We must go find Mother Talzin. She may know what this brings!”

Moments later, they find themselves in the courtyard with the rest of the clan. Even Old Daka has emerged from her den - Asajj exchanges glances with Karis, worried at the severity of the situation.

A little ways off, a young child asks with fear, “Mama, what’s happening?”

The child’s mother hugs her closer. “Hush, Merrin, Mother Talzin will answer our questions soon.”

It is unusual for all the Nightsisters to gather in one place. Ventress can sense the apprehension in the air, taste the nervousness, yet there is something else. The Force is singing in her veins in such a way she has never felt before. 

A hush falls over the murmuring crowd as Mother Talzin appears. There is a gleam in her eyes that Asajj can’t discern, but through the Force, there is a thinly veiled triumph. “Sisters,” Talzin calls, and Asajj can nearly taste the apprehension in the air, “No doubt you have all sensed the change on Dathomir. The rancors have become more restless, our magicks stronger.”

Then, Asajj senses something else from Talzin. Fear. 

“Be cautious, sisters.” Talzin hesitates, a characteristic so unlike her that Asajj can sense all her sisters holding their breaths. “What you have sensed is the return of the Fanged God and the Winged Goddess to the corporeal world.”

There is a beat of silence, then the courtyard explodes into noise, sisters talking loudly to one another as the Force around them pulses with shock. Several sisters raise their hands, then flinch in surprise as the ichor they summon comes with great ease and power, bathing the courtyard with a green glow. 

For Asajj, the revelation is met with some confusion. Though she remembers - vaguely - some legends she was told as a child, it has been too long ago for her to remember. Ignoring the stinging reminder of her harsh childhood, she speaks. “Karis, what does this mean for us?”

“The Winged Goddess is the one who we commune with when we summon ichor, sister, the one who blesses us with control over the magicks,” Karis says. There is awe in her voice, laced with a tremor. “The Fanged God is the one who blesses us with strength when we do battle and tame the rancors. Their return means an increase in our clan’s power!”

Asajj hums, deep in contemplation. While she is less apt at controlling the ‘magicks’, as her sisters call it, there has certainly been a shift in the Force. Falling into a quick meditation, Asajj tries to look to the future, asking the Force for any indication of the path it wishes to take her and the Nightsisters. Visions had never been her strong suit - as Dooku’s apprentice, she had been impatient, interested only in power which seemed not to come from visions of the far future, but as a Nightsister, she had calmed herself, and become more mature. Perhaps, with the strengthening of the magicks of Dathomir, she can-

A vision strikes her, leaving her reeling with pain. Asajj comes to Karis shaking her shoulder in worry. “Asajj!” her sister shouts, nearly unheard over the din of the courtyard. “Asajj, are you alright?”

No. No, she’s not. 

“We must speak to Mother Talzin immediately,” she snarls. Asajj turns her head, and sees Talzin watching her. She turns back to Karis. “Dooku wants revenge. We must prepare the clan for a coming attack.”

\--

**Now.**

The Temple is shaking, and it’s surrounded by darkness. 

Deep in the basement levels, a training room designed to train stealth and concealment in the Force now holds three masters, six knights, twenty-one padawans and thirteen younglings. Cal Kestis clutches at his lightsaber and tries desperately not to think of how he’s afraid. 

He’s supposed to be turning thirteen in a month. 

Supposed to be.

He doesn’t know if he will.

Every few minutes, something strikes the shields of the Temple and the walls shake, making the younglings huddle together in fright. Beside Cal, a padawan five years his elder with blue-green eyes and dark hair pulled into a tight braid speaks quietly. “Master,” she whispers, “shall I start a breathing exercise with the younglings to keep them calm?”

One of the Jedi Masters - one of the human ones with dark skin and short hair - turns and gives an encouraging smile to her padawan. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “That’s a good idea, Trilla. You may proceed.” The padawan - Trilla - inclines her head and moves to crouch beside the younglings, whispering to them in low tones that Cal can barely make out. 

What also frightens him is that each of the younglings, some wielding training sabers instead of real lightsabers, may not stand a chance against the approaching army. Cal himself is skilled enough at deflecting shots, but he knows -  _ he knows _ \- those younglings have only practiced with remote droids on an easy setting. Should a battalion of clones come in…

They are all so, so tiny. Cal’s heart aches at the thought of them never reaching ten years of age. 

That won’t happen. Of course it won’t happen. The Jedi Masters and the Knights will protect them, and if necessary, Cal knows that he and the other padawans will go down fighting as well. What’s more, there are many other rooms sprinkled throughout the basement levels with a similar mix of Jedi Masters and younglings - all of them well hidden. Plus, Master Yoda was at the frontline defense! Surely, with Master Yoda there, it meant that they would be fine.

(Those are empty promises, easily shaken every time the walls rumble with impact against the shields.)

The Dark Side lies heavy on the planet. Young padawan as he is, Cal senses the Dark settling heavily over Coruscant like a murky fog, dampening their spirits and muddying any foresight. Through the fog, he can somewhat sense Master Tapal, a bright presence filled with a carefully controlled worry that’s laced with resolve. 

“I must go with the other Masters to protect the Temple front, Cal,” Master Tapal had said. “I’ll see you again when it’s over.”

Cal wonders how the Temple front really looks like now. The battlefield isn’t entirely foreign, and though it is intimidating, he has faced it several times already, and the sound of blasterfire and the smell of smoke is not unfamiliar by now. Master Tapal hadn’t hidden his dislike of bringin Cal onto the battlefield at all - in fact, more often than not, he refused to allow Cal out of the flagship - but in the times where there was no flagship and no secure base and the safest place was at Master Tapal’s side, he had allowed it. Cal had pretended not to hear the words that had floated unknowingly over their bond.

_ I’m so sorry, my padawan. You are too young. _

He hadn’t understood, then. He had been twelve and proud of being chosen as a Padawan so young. Even the Chosen One’s padawan (and everyone knew the Chosen One and his master, of course, they were The Team, and when he had gotten a padawan, the Temple rumor mill had said that she was growing to be just as powerful a Jedi as them both) - Ahsoka - she had been chosen very young, but she chosen at fourteen! Cal had thought, wrongly, that maybe Master Tapal was just being a little overcautious, because surely he could handle it. 

Cal thinks of the battlefield, then thinks of the front of the Temple, littered with bodies and scorched with blasterfire, and he understands that Master Tapal was right. He looks at the huddled younglings, looks at Trilla and the other padawans, and he understands why Master Tapal thought he was too young. 

They are all too young. Too young to be fighting in a war, yoo young to be hiding deep within the Temple out of fear of massacre, too young to be wondering if they will live to see the next minute, the next hour, the next day. 

A soothing wave of calm washes across the room. Cal looks up to see the dark-skinned human master and one of the blue-skinned togruta knights watching the padawans and younglings, sending out soothing energy through the Force to calm their agitation. “We’ll be alright, younglings, padawans,” says the master. “The future may be uncertain, but we must have faith in the Force.” She smiles, and Cal can tell that she’s trying really hard to have it reach her eyes, and not quite succeeding. “Have hope.”

He takes a deep breath, and reaches for the Force, allowing it to comfort him in the wake of his worries.

Have hope.

\--

**Then.**

When Ahsoka’s masters return from Umbara, what strikes her as she awaits them in the hangar is how  _ empty _ their ships are. 

Something had gone terribly, terribly wrong. 

When the gunship doors open, she sees it in the expressions of her masters and of Captain Rex. Though they smile when they see her, there is a somberness in Obi-Wan’s eyes and a hardness in Anakin’s that belies a campaign that had taken heavy losses. 

And so, she asks them because she needs to hear their answers. “Masters, Rex, are you alright?” 

The lack of an immediate snarky answer from any of them hints to her the severity of what must have happened at Umbara. Through her bond with Anakin, he is blocked off, his usual shields covered with a fog. 

(In her mind’s eye, Anakin’s shields have always looked like a sandstorm, too dangerous to enter without shelter. But for some reason, she swears that if she were to look at the mist covering the sandstorm right now, it’d be blue-green.)

“It’s… complicated.” As Anakin opens his mouth to tell her more, Obi-Wan’s comlink chimes, and Anakin groans. “We need to talk to the Council. Rex, can you- can you debrief her?”

If anybody notices the way he stumbles over his words, it goes unmentioned. 

“Of course, sir,” says Rex, and Ahsoka’s masters leave with a hasty farewell.

Trying to make light of the situation, Ahsoka jokes, “I wonder what’s got Anakin of all people running to the Council.”

Rex doesn’t laugh. Instead, there’s a heaviness in his posture that Ahsoka hadn’t noticed before. “Come on, Commander. Let’s talk somewhere more private.” 

As they leave the hangar, Ahsoka watches the clones as they depart their gunships. She sees Boil from the 212th, and she sees the absence of Waxer just as clearly. It is then that she understands the emotions she is sensing from every clone - they are angry, they carry guilt, and though they still have some of their brothers, the absence of those who should be there makes them feel so very, very alone. 

\--

Ahsoka is sixteen. She knows that at her age, she should not be the Commander of armies. She’s also aware that at her age, she should not be fantasizing about the brutal murder of a Jedi general. After Rex finishes catching her up, the numbers of dead clones ringing in her mind, she catches onto one thing that he glazed over. “Rex,” she says, and she senses more than sees him stiffen, “you said that  _ sleemo _ was executed. But… how did he die?”

The Force around him recoils, then blooms in a mix of guilt, vindication, disgust, and satisfaction. He hesitates, his face colouring with shame and doubt, before he meets her eyes with resolve. “I don’t think it’s my story to tell, Commander. You’ll have to ask General Skywalker.” 

His voice shakes, barely. But there is more to the story - Ahsoka can sense that Rex wants to say something. “Rex,” she says again, “was it fast?”

He flinches, the Force colouring with a deep shame that wars with a vindication that’s so powerful it bleeds into his voice. “No,” he says, and there is a deep satisfaction in his voice. “It wasn’t.” 

\--

“And when discover him, you did, attack you, did General Krell?”

From Anakin, a hesitation, then a quiet exhale. “He did. He wished to use my death to cement his place at Dooku’s side.”

The Council, had it not been formed of Jedi Masters, would have dissolved into shouts and exclamations. Instead, there are sharp looks and small pulses in the Force. Yoda’s ears droop. “Troubling, this is.” He gives Anakin a small smile, though it is heavy and laden with grief. “The right thing, you did, Skywalker. Valiant men are the clones. Deserve this, they did not.” 

“Thank you, Master Yoda.” 

Mace, however, is concerned over another matter this has brought up. “It is disturbing that we haven’t been able to sense Master Krell’s Fall until after he had committed such an atrocity.” He raises his gaze, meeting the eyes of each member. “What is there to stop another Jedi who has lost their way from abusing or murdering their men? We must do better for our own soldiers. They have saved our lives countless times - we have a responsibility to ensure they are treated with respect.”

“I agree,” says Luminara. “We must be more vigilant, not only for ourselves, but for our comrades-in-arms. How many more Fallen Jedi will we fail to sense, even if they stand right in front of us?”

Anakin tries very hard, then, not to remember the way he had held the besalisk heart in his hands, or the way the lightning had leaped from his fingers, hungry for pain. He pulls on his shields again, trying desperately to press down on the sudden fear which has emerged, the fear of what the Council would do should they discover his true actions on Umbara.

Not a single Council member even looks his way. 

(Through his training bond, a small wave of reassurance flows into his mind.  _ I’ve got you, Anakin, _ sends Obi-Wan, and Anakin feels the gentle caress of what feels like a mist covering his shields, protecting him from the Council. He sends a pulse of gratefulness in return.)

\--

When he leaves the Council chambers, Anakin checks his comm, and finds a message from the Chancellor, asking to meet at the earliest convenience. He has heard awful things in the report, he says, and he wishes to know if Anakin is doing alright after such a betrayal. 

He smiles, and comms a quick reply, stating that he will be free this evening, if the Chancellor has time. He then checks his message, then notices a new report from Kix. 

Since the mission at the Citadel, Echo had been experiencing sharp headaches. Though he had recovered well, the headaches had been debilitating enough for him to remain on the flagship during Umbara, working with the tacticians instead of on the front lines. Kix asks for Anakin’s help now, reporting that the scans show no problems, so perhaps he or one of the Temple healers could use their ‘Force tricks’ to diagnose the problem.

Anakin grimaces. He’s not particularly skilled at healing, but to potentially expose what Ahsoka had done - to potentially reveal to the Jedi, and the Council, what the Ones on Mortis had left them with-

He’s afraid. He knows this. He also knows that if Obi-Wan agreed to hide it, there must be a  _ very good reason _ for this not to be exposed. He sends a reply to Kix, then heads for the hangar.

\--

The scanner beeps, then a new signal pops up, highlighting a foreign device in Echo’s head. 

Ahsoka scowls. “What the hell is that?” 

At her own insistence, she had been taken along to observe. She was still reeling from the report that Rex had given her, but she needed to see this. If she had done something personally to Echo…

Anakin frowns, removing his hands from the sides of Echo’s head. A chip inside someone’s head - untraceable save for the Force - feels uncomfortably familiar, and he’s suddenly aware of the old scar on his stomach, and the wonderful burn he had felt after he had obtained it. 

The burn of freedom. The burn of having his slave chip removed. 

“Get him under and get it out of him,” he growls, and Kix immediately obeys, looking vaguely sick as he stares at the scans of the metal parasite inside Echo’s head. 

Kix is a medic. Anakin knows that in the campaigns he’s been on, Kix has removed a fair share of transmitter chips from worlds where the Separatists decided to have slaves. 

There is something else, though - a thought that Anakin can’t quite pinpoint. Ahsoka, however, vocalizes that unknown thought. “Wait. Echo has never been captured,” she says slowly, her unease colouring the Force. “If the Separatists didn’t put the chip in, who did?”

\--

That evening, Anakin speaks to the Chancellor. Palpatine is sympathetic, his kindly figure turning even a little angry when Anakin speaks of Krell. “I do hope that this… traitor faced the appropriate justice?” Palpatine asks.

Anakin remembers the way his blood had sung when he had seen the look of fear on Krell’s face, and he says, “He did. I promise you, Your Excellency, he got exactly what he deserved.”

Palpatine smiles. “I’m not normally one to speak ill of the dead, but I must say, well done, Anakin. I am glad that justice was served to such a - pardon my language, please - a despicable monster!”

“As am I.” It is times like this that Anakin is glad he has found a friend and mentor in the Chancellor - the Jedi would have frowned at his delight at vengeance, but at least, Palpatine understands, and doesn’t make him feel like a failure every time he experiences a negative emotion. 

He thinks of the mystery of the chip in Echo’s head. Perhaps an outside perspective will help him decipher it?

His thoughts are interrupted by a gentle voice. “Anakin, is there something else troubling you?” Palpatine is peering at him, concern lining his features. “You seem deep in thought.”

Anakin opens his mouth to ask the Chancellor about the chip, but something within him nudges his tongue, and he’s saying “I’m as well as I can be, I suppose. Just overtired.”

What?

“Of course!” Palpatine waves him in a casual dismissal. “Please, don’t let me keep you. Rest well.” 

Anakin thanks the Chancellor, then turns away, pretending not to worry over the way the Force had suddenly held his tongue. 

\--

Obi-Wan looks nonplussed.

“A chip in Echo’s head, you say? Yet he’s never been captured by the Separatists?”

“Exactly.” Anakin puts his head in his hands in their quarters. “But if it wasn’t them, who was it? I don’t think Echo just shoved a metal chip into his head. And it was hidden from the scans, too.”

“As if the creators didn’t want it to be found.” Obi-Wan strokes his beard, a nervous tic that Anakin had made fun of, several times, but he can’t find it in himself to joke now. The existence of the chip in Echo sits heavily in his mind, and though it’s been over eleven years, he finds himself vividly remembering the look of the new slaves in Mos Espa, terror on their faces as they realized they could never escape the metal parasite that was buried deep within them. 

“I’m certain it wasn’t a Jedi - or Republic medic, for that matter,” Anakin says. “They would never do that, and if there was a surgery, he would have-”

Obi-Wan sucks in a breath at the same time Anakin cuts off his sentence, horror pooling in his stomach and making him feel sick. 

If there was a surgery, there would be a scar. 

“The Kaminoans,” Obi-Wan mutters, and Anakin thinks he wants to vomit.

They know the Kaminoans are too good to make a mistake. The chip was placed there deliberately - that much is certain. But if it was in Echo, and it wasn’t a mistake…

“We need to check our men,” Anakin gasps, and he can feel the hysteria threatening to overturn his shields. “We need to-”

“Calm down, Anakin _ - _ ”

“ _ Calm down?" _ Anakin nearly shouts. How could Obi-Wan be okay with this? With leading an army of  _ slaves? _ “How dare you-”

“If you do not calm down, you will reveal yourself to the Temple!” Obi-Wan snaps through gritted teeth. “I cannot shield you for much longer if you do not control yourself, and if you are compromised, you cannot help your men!”

The rebuke cuts through Anakin’s hysteria as he becomes suddenly aware of his failing shields and Obi-Wan’s strain.

His eyes are burning. There’s no mirror in this room, but from the look on Obi-Wan’s face, Anakin is pretty sure that right now, his own eyes are not blue. Something brushes his back, and he tries very hard not to look at the wings of shadow that he’s aware have formed behind him.

Hastily, he tightens his shields and releases some of his distress into the Force, and though he’s pretty sure it didn’t do much, Obi-Wan’s rigid posture relaxes a fraction. “I’m sorry, Master,” Anakin mumbles. 

Obi-Wan sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It’s alright.” Obi-Wan’s fingertips are becoming blurry, a hint of blue-green dissolving the edges of his hands, but he doesn’t seem to notice - a sure sign of his own distress. “We must go through this carefully. If what we suspect is true, the consequences will be severe. We cannot afford to blunder our way through this.”

Anakin bristles at the subtle reprimand, but he brushes it off. Now is not the time. “I want those chips out of them,” he grinds out. “I’ll order Kix and Ahsoka to start preparations immediately.” 

As he moves to grab his comm, Obi-Wan catches his hand. “You don’t know if an acknowledgment of the chips will trigger something in them,” he warns. 

Anakin jerks his hand away. “Kix seemed fine.”

“But did you specifically tell him to ‘remove the chip’, or were you simply treating Echo for a headache?” Pinching the bridge of his nose, Obi-Wan adds, “And while our comms are secure, what should occur if there is a hiccup? Or worse, a traitor in the higher ranks who has access to the comm transcripts? You were fortunate with Echo, but what if something else happens to your men?”

Anakin imagines Krell, laughing with delight, a detonator in hand as he orders the clones around with full knowledge that they are his slaves, and he is sickened. He imagines a corrupt bureaucrat, tapping into their comms and utilizing the GAR as a personal army. Worst of all, he imagines himself ordering Kix to remove the chip, and accidentally triggering a code that would detonate not just the medic, but his entire battalion.

He was a slave, once. He’d seen what types of detonators there were, and how they were activated.

“I got it,” he mutters. “I’ll wipe part of Echo’s file, then I’ll see what I can decode from that karking chip.”

“I’ll go through some of the Council files to see if there’s anything relevant in old reports. We must tread carefully.” Obi-Wan reaches out, placing a hand on Anakin’s shoulder. It’s rare for him to be physically affectionate, but since Umbara, they have both changed, and Anakin is grateful for Obi-Wan’s unwavering support. “Will you be alright?”

“Yeah,” Anakin huffs, but Obi-Wan isn’t fooled.

“I can’t shield you as well from such a distance.” Obi-Wan’s stern tone softens, and he squeezes Anakin’s shoulder once. “Take care of your men, but take care of yourself, too.”

Those words have been said hundreds of times already throughout the war. And like the hundreds of times before, Anakin breaks out into a cheeky smile, replying with, “I’ll start following that advice when you do.”

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, but becomes serious again, having finally noticed the way his fingertips are gently dissolving and reforming. His eyes narrow, and as Anakin senses him reigning his emotions in, Obi-Wan’s fingers become and remain solid once more. “We both cannot afford to slip. I want to remove the chip from our men as much as you do.” 

Anakin sighs. “I understand. If we need to communicate through holocall...” He trails off, but Obi-Wan understands. The combination of the strength of their bond and their own hand signals they had come up with would be enough to convey necessary messages discreetly.

“We will find a solution to this,” Obi-Wan reassures him. “We will remove the chips safely. I know it.”

Anakin can’t bring himself to agree, because he’d made the same promise to his friends and his mother in Mos Espa, and he’d never followed through.

\--

Two days later, they’ve brought Ahsoka into the loop, and they both pretend not to hear it when her shout of frustration sounds a little too much like the howl of a griffin. When Anakin slams his fist down on the table, frustrated with hours of no progress, the others pretend not to flinch at his snarl, set in a mouth too wide to be human. When Obi-Wan huffs and falls onto his chair after long hours of combing through reports, the others pretend not to notice how his fingers are not always solid. 

They’re slipping, a little. But they reinforce each other’s shields and no Jedi come knocking at their doors to demand an explanation for the strangeness in their Force presence. Anakin still hasn’t spoken to Ahsoka about what happened on Umbara, about his and Obi-Wan’s new understandings of what had happened to them on Mortis, but he knows that she’s already figured out part of it just as he knows that it isn’t her immediate concern. 

Their priorities are Rex. Cody. Fives Boil Jesse Gregor and all the others who are unaware that there is a  _ slave chip in their heads and there is nothing they can do about it. _

Echo was lucky. Anakin’s stomach turns every time he thinks of the ways the removal could have gone wrong. He’d seen a botched removal, once, when he was seven, and what was left of the Twi’lek slave - and the knife she had used to try to dig the transmitter out - had to be scraped off the floor. 

Echo was lucky. So was Anakin. He remembers the burn in his stomach, the threat of detonation that Watto would sometimes hold over his head, and he throws himself again into the decryption with vigor.

\--

**Now.**

In his nine-hundred years of living, Yoda has never felt devastation as deeply as this. 

He has already lost countless students. To the Dark, to missions gone wrong, to old age. Each loss weighs heavily on him, yet as the years passed, he had learned to take their passing with peace, celebrating a life well lived that had joined the Force, or making peace with decisions that were ultimately out of his hands.

But this…

From his position at the front of the Temple, he can see the blue glow of the energy shields, preventing the heavy artillery from collapsing the structure. 

There are so many bodies on the steps.

Mace fights at his side, as does Luminara and Ki-Adi-Mundi, but they are weary. The Siege of Coruscant has lasted for hours already, clones under the control of the chips and soldiers of the Senate guard loyal only to Palpatine having laid waste to the planet. The Temple is but one place with heavy casualties. Even from such a distance, Yoda can sense the lack of life in the Senate Dome, in a place where there used to be thousands of flickering lights. 

On the steps of the Temple, Jedi stand in front of the 187th battalion, deflecting any shots that come their way. Mace’s battalion, along with many others, had been de-chipped, but there were also so many more that were unsafe. The 41st - Luminara’s battalion - was out in the streets of Coruscant among many others, working to temporarily incapacitate clones who were not in control of their actions. 

Yoda feels it every time a life extinguishes, every time a Jedi across the stars falls victim to the men who never had a choice. With each light gone dark, Yoda blames himself, again and again, for his arrogance. If they had listened - if they had actually listened to the Force and not been so attached to the Code, which was older than he was! - if they had not grown complacent, they could have saved so many more.

Force, the Council had been so certain that they could see the Sith. They had been so certain that they would be able to anticipate, at least, where the betrayal would come from - surely, a powerful crime lord far in the Outer Rim, for they would have sensed the Sith Lord if he was on the planet. 

They had been so blind. 

But the time for self-reproach is not now. In the moment, Yoda’s focus must be on protecting the Temple, on protecting the younglings and padawans and the wounded in the Healer’s Halls. While there are still multiple lines of defense in the Temple - while they  _ have _ prepared for this assault - to anticipate it and to actually live it through are different things entirely. 

From hidden openings in the Temple walls, ancient weapons long stored away in archival storage are put to use once more. Small darts, imbued with modern medical sedatives used for long surgeries, are thrown through small gaps, guided with the Force controlled by Jedi Masters standing behind the walls. For every soldier they succeed in hitting, Yoda counts it as a small victory, for each clone knocked out by a sedative means one more clone potentially saved from a life-ending blaster bolt to the chest.

There is so much grief pouring out from the 187th battalion as they gun down their own brothers. The Senate guard’s armor is laced with something which makes stun bolts ineffective, forcing the 187th to switch to kill. With each shot, Yoda can feel the hurt from the 187th as if it is his own. The clones are valiant men - they never deserved this. They never-

At Yoda’s side, Mace stumbles. 

Pain flares in the Force, so sharp and acute that if Yoda were any less experienced, he would have faltered and run to check on his friend, sure that he would find a physical wound. Instead, he maintains his focus and does not falter in the swing of his saber, but he feels a deep pain within him and sends a wave of support towards his friend through the Force.

Mace recovers instantly, wrist twisting expertly to deflect the blaster bolts screaming for his death, but the dust and soot on his face is beginning to wash off from the silent tears that have begun to appear. He is not an emotionally warm man by any means, nor does he ever seem to have known defeat as seen through his cool assessment of every situation in battle, but Yoda knows beneath the severe facade there is a heart that cares so deeply he must control it with an unyielding grip lest it Fall to the Dark. 

_ Depa. _

Yoda’s heart aches then, for his friend, for Mace’s padawan, and for his grandpadawan Caleb Dume, who is but a child and who must be hurting and terrified if he isn’t already dead. Yoda rebukes himself again, for becoming complacent, for becoming arrogant in his old age, for if he had acted sooner, perhaps he could have saved so many more-

But there is no time for regrets, not now. He cannot change what has been done. He must focus on the future, and focus on saving as many as he can now. 


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update?! So soon?!
> 
> Indeed! There will still be an update on Friday, but since I have a short break from school, I've been able to chug out an extra chapter this week. 
> 
> Chapter has more angst than horror, but it was very fun. Unbeta'd, as usual.

**Then.**

At the same moment Asajj Ventress freezes in conversation on Dathomir, on the other side of the galaxy, Savage Opress’ hands twitch as he enters the coordinates into the navicomputer. 

Unlike Ventress, he was raised on Dathomir, and he knows well the reason for the sudden increase in his power. The village elder had long talked with reverence of the Fanged God, and while he had talked less of the Winged Goddess, citing the reasons to be that her control over the magicks was reserved for the Nightsisters, Savage had understood that the gifts granted to him by Mother Talzin were through a strong connection to the goddess. 

He grasps his amulet now and focuses on the power within him. The clan elders had always taught that the Fanged God was to be called upon, for he governed the hunt, and the Nightsisters were capable of casting a ritual spell named the Blood Ritual in order to track down their targets. As a Nightbrother, Savage had never been capable of such a thing, but perhaps now, with the gifts Mother had granted him, along with the strengthening presences of the gods…

His other hand moves of its own accord, pressing in coordinates which he has no memory of ever seeing, and he opens his eyes as he pulls on the hyperdrive switch. 

_Lotho Minor_.

Unlike his past searches, the way his blood sings with _rightness_ at seeing the name leads him to believe he will be successful.

\--

He finds Maul, but he’s so far removed from reality that he might as well be dead. 

Savage stares at what remains of his brother, half-manic and half-mechanical, and he shakes his head. “Come, brother,” he says, hiding his uncertainty. He isn’t sure if he’ll be able to get his brother onto the ship. What’s worse, he isn’t even sure his brother will remember him. But he must try. They are of the same blood. “Come with me. Mother Talzin will help you, and you shall have revenge.”

Maul laughs, then screams, then laughs again. “Revenge!” he cries. “Revenge. Of course. Kenobi. I must not forget. Kenobi.” His mechanical legs twitter and twitch, spidery appendages clicking against the hard stone floor in a _tick-tick-tick._

There are many bones in this place. One of Maul’s legs snaps against a bone and it breaks, sending it clattering to Savage’s feet. He hates this place. That creature had taken advantage of his brother - dishonored him! - and had exploited his madness and used him as a way to find easy food. 

Some of the skeletons are small. Many of them look humanoid.

Savage hides his discomfort and gestures, using the Force to subtly nudge his brother along. It’s best to be out of this place as soon as possible.

\--

The return to Dathomir is met with a silence so strange it feels loud. Mother Talzin greets him midway, flanked on both sides by two sisters. “Savage,” she says. “You have found him.”

“I have, Mother.” He bows to her in respect, then gestures to the ship, where the groans of a madman can be heard, the only other sound piercing through the tranquil forest. “But he is… broken. Damaged. He doesn’t remember much of his old life.”

Talzin hums, then turns to the sisters. “Leave us,” she instructs. “Have your sisters prepare for ritual.” 

The sisters bow, then depart. It does not miss Savage’s notice that their hands are tight on their bows, that their faces are lined with a worry he is unused to seeing. “Mother,” he asks, “is something troubling the clan?”

“Dooku and his minions wish to destroy us,” she says, and Savage notices a hidden pleasure in her voice. “But with the strengthening of our magicks, we have grown stronger and have anticipated the attack. It has not yet come - when it does, we will destroy him instead.”

Ah - so that is why she is pleased. Savage cannot deny that the thought of revenge on Dooku does not bring him pleasure. For a moment, he wonders if Ventress is here, and he feels a pang of resentment - she had abused him, treated him like an animal, and yet she had gone unpunished. But he dismisses it. The females of this planet do what they wish with the males - such is the way of Dathomir, even if he chafes against it.

Regardless, he worries, still - he had seen the droids that had numbered so much they seemed infinite and he had seen the power of Dooku. “Shall I stay to protect the coven?” he asks, though he is not sure if his offer will be worth much. The sisters are witches, capable of wielding magicks far more complex than he can imagine. He is certain that his strength can easily be matched by a single sister.

But Talzin does not take offense, and instead offers a kind smile to Savage. “It is not necessary, Savage.” She peers inside the ship, looking between the crates, and for a moment, Savage senses a great pain arise inside her, the pain of a Mother looking at her son and seeing a senseless monster. “He does remember something.”

“Yes. Something or someone named Kenobi.” Savage stares at his brother, stares at the terrified creature that rants and raves and laughs and cries, and he winces. “It is an obsession.”

“Then that will be your responsibility to our people. To aid him in his revenge.” Talzin reigns in her pain, and raises her hands. “Now, let us fix what has been broken.”

\--

**Now.**

They’d been caught by surprise. 

The campaign to Florrum was supposed to be a joint operation between Master Billaba’s battalion and that of Master Tugoln. Caleb wants to slam his head against the wall for becoming so arrogant - while their own battalion had been de-chipped, Master Tugoln’s had not been since he had been away from Coruscant for well over a year, and no one had been able to reach him in person to deliver the news. And while they had been able to start the de-chipping process for Master Tugoln’s clone leadership, they had grown complacent, and he and Master Billaba had flown from their flagship to Master Tugoln’s flagship to watch over the de-chipping process.

“It’ll just be for a few moments, Caleb,” his master had said. “I don’t sense any danger. We’ll be alright.”

She was wrong. 

He can’t get his master’s shout of pain out of his ears. He can’t stop reaching across a training bond that doesn’t exist anymore. 

It’s so empty. So empty. The entire ship feels empty, but it’s not. Whatever it was that had activated the chips had functionally killed the clones. 

He heard them scream, in the Force. He heard their shouts of pain and surprise as something took their individuality and tore it away from them. In the Force, they used to be a thousand flickering lights, all unique in their own way, each with names and different personalities and-

And now they feel like one unit. A thousand presences muted and turned into one and the same.

They feel like droids. They feel like the _Separatist droids._

Caleb wants to hurl. He wants to curl up into himself and wake up at home, at the Jedi Temple, with Master Billaba stroking his hair and telling him that he’s just gone through a particularly bad vision but it’s over and he’ll be alright. He wants to go back to his own flagship, wants to have a game of Dejarik with Commander Grey and his brothers. 

But Master Billaba and Commander Grey are dead on the bridge of this flagship and he’s hiding in the vents. 

Force, he’s scared. He’s not yet a senior padawan and he’s supposed to turn fourteen soon and he doesn’t know if he ever will. He can sense that he’s in a section of the vents that isn’t nearby any clones - which is good - but he knows that it’ll only buy him ten minutes at most of respite. 

His comm flashes, and he tries not to collapse in relief. It’s a secure signal from his men. 

_RECEIVED - REQUEST - SUPPORT._ His comm alternates in long and short flashes in the code he uses with his men when they need to hold a quiet communications. _EN-ROUTE-RETRIEVAL. YOU - NOT - ALONE._

His breath hitches. He can sense, from his position in the vents, one of the ships docking nearby, filled with flickering lights of clones who are so beautifully unique and in control of their individuality. He knows his men are de-chipped, but Master Tugoln’s men - they don’t know that. 

He taps back _I - FIND - YOU - MEET - STARBOARD_ , then begins to crawl in the direction where he can sense his men. Then he pauses, and with a heavy heart, sends back, _I - ALONE - OTHERS - GONE._

There’s no response. He doesn’t expect any - any condolences sent through code wouldn’t feel adequate. 

As he crawls through the vents, he senses the chipped clones, running in units in their search for him, moving like a squad of droids, devoid of individuality, on a mission to eliminate a target. That’s who he is to them. Not a trusted Commander. Not Caleb. Not a friend. Just a target to be eliminated. 

A squad passes underneath the vents and he hears them pause. Caleb freezes, not daring to breathe, to twitch, lest he do something wrong and what if they just decide to shoot him through the metal and he’ll never have a chance to reach his senior padawanship and he’s just a kid he just _wants to go home_ -

They move on, and it isn’t until Caleb senses that they’re well away that he lets out his breath. He’s trembling all over, shaking so hard that his teeth are chattering. He sends out a call to the Force, asking it to send him anything, please, please, just a burst of hope, anything to give him the motivation to not curl up into a ball and stay there forever in fear.

The Force answers. He sucks in a sharp breath, grateful that there are no clones around to hear him, but he’s only half aware of his surroundings. He’s aware he’s in the throes of a vision, and this isn’t exactly the time to be zoning out into the Force, but he doesn’t care.

It feels safe. It feels happy. It feels like home. Family. 

There’s a green-skinned Twi'lek, in this vision, and his name is on her lips and her hand is on his cheek, and all he can see about her is that she’s beautiful and strong and force of her own even though she isn’t a Jedi. Behind him, a young boy with black hair and blue eyes stands with a padawan braid and a happy smile on his face, and Caleb knows without a doubt that this is _his_ padawan. The boy is in happy conversation with a purple-skinned Lasat and a Mandalorian girl with vividly-coloured hair, and something bumps into the Twi’lek woman and she stumbles into Caleb’s arms. A quick glance shows him an orange-headed C1 astromech, chuckling in amusement. 

He doesn’t know them. He doesn’t know any of these people but he sees them and he knows that though his entire world has just been turned on its head, the Force has a will, and he will one day know these beings like family.

 _You will survive, Caleb Dume,_ the Force whispers to him, and he thinks it sounds like Master Billaba. _You have a future._

The vision fades and takes Caleb’s fears along with it. He’s still alert, still worried, but he’s no longer shaking and immobilized by his fear. He trusts in the Force, and picks up his pace, moving to meet his troopers.

He’ll make it off this ship alive. He knows it. He doesn’t know what the Force has in store for him, but he knows his path does not end here.

When it does end, it will be with an unlikely family.

\--

**Then.**

On the fifth day of their investigation which seems to be more and more fruitless, Obi-Wan finally finds something hidden deep within the Council reports. 

“Anakin,” he calls, “Come. I’ve found something.” 

It’s a report on the chips, provided by the Kaminoans. Supposedly, they are there to prevent aggressive tendencies within the clones, to prevent them from acting with the same volatility as their predecessor. Obi-Wan remembers, then, meeting with Jango Fett, and while the reasoning in the report is plausible, there is something about it which ticks the wrong way. 

Anakin scans the report with a critical eye. It seems very transparent, designed so that the reader would have no questions about the chips, but he seems to catch something that Obi-Wan missed. “There’s something off about the code listed in the report,” he says, but doesn’t elaborate. 

He’s been very short with words recently. The few times he does talk, Obi-Wan ensures to double down on the shields surrounding his former padawan, because he’s certain that even the slightest slip will bring the entire Temple converging upon them. 

Anakin’s eyes are not always blue. Ahsoka has noticed, Obi-Wan is certain, and her trust in the both of them must be very strong indeed for her not to have said a word. 

They continue to work in silence for the rest of the afternoon. Obi-Wan reaches the end of the eighty-page report with no other notable information, and as he scans the signatures which approved the document, his eye catches on a signature.

Oh.

Anakin will _not_ like this. 

“The report was approved by the Chancellor,” he says into the silence, and he braces for the immediate defense of the Chancellor that never comes. Instead, Anakin’s brows furrow, and Obi-Wan senses a small wave of suspicion from across their bond. 

“When I was speaking with the Chancellor, five days ago,” he says, “I wanted to tell Palpatine about the chips.”

From across the room, Ahsoka’s shoulders stiffen. “But you didn’t,” she says.

“I didn’t,” he agrees. “Something stopped me.” 

Something. The Force, Obi-Wan thinks. “There must be a reason the Force doesn’t want you to tell him about this.”

Anakin hums. “Maybe.” 

The conversation gets no further. Obi-Wan’s comm chimes, and the three of them jump reflexively as the shrill sound pierces the room. He fumbles with the comm, trying to calm himself down enough so that _his fingers will stay solid, dammit,_ before giving up and using the Force to nudge the button. “Yes?”

“Obi-Wan.” Yoda’s voice comes from the comm, sounding urgent. Obi-Wan exchanges a nervous glance with Anakin and Ahsoka, and he senses them doubling down on their shields. What if they had been discovered? What if- “A message there is, for you.” A pause, then, “From Savage Opress, and his brother.”

“Brother?” he asks, confused.

“Yes.” Master Yoda’s voice is severe. “A companion, he has, with legs of metal. Asking for you, specifically, the companion is, Obi-Wan.”

A chill runs down his spine. At his side, Anakin sucks in a sharp breath.

As if sensing his distress, Yoda continues with a gentler voice, “Trust in the Force, Obi-Wan. With you, we stand.”

A zabrak with legs of metal.

“Thank you, Master Yoda,” he manages with a strained voice. “I’ll be there shortly.”

He doesn’t hear Yoda’s acknowledgment. He doesn’t hear Ahsoka asking what this means. He doesn’t hear Anakin asking if he’s alright. 

What he does hear is the sound of a saber shearing through skin. He hears his own scream from twelve years past, feels the phantom pain of having his training bond with Qui-Gon ripped apart violently, feels his own saber slicing through a Sith who stares at him with surprise. 

How could he be alive? 

How _dare_ he live when Qui-Gon died?

Two simultaneous nudges through two different training bonds bring him back to the present. “Master?” Anakin asks hesitantly. At his side, Ahsoka is staring at him with deep concern, hiding her confusion behind what also feels like terror. 

“I’m fine,” he lies, but it’s seen through too easily - Ahsoka scowls and Anakin swats him on the shoulder.

“No, you’re not, old man,” he growls half-heartedly. “You’re all over the floor.” 

Obi-Wan glances downwards to see that in his distress, at least a third of his body (and his clothing) has dissolved into the blue-green mist and pooled around him on the floor, swirling around what is supposed to be his legs. He clenches his teeth and pushes down his panic, releasing his torment into the Force, drawing inwards and focusing on the feeling of _being solid_ once again. 

The mist dissipates, leaving behind his very solid legs and a silence that seems too loud. 

“We need to talk about this,” he says firmly, breaking the silence. Ahsoka is staring at him, her terror well-masked. “Ahsoka, I’m sorry that we haven’t been able to discuss this since our return, but…”

“Our men,” she finishes softly. “No, I understand. Their lives are important.”

He gives her a nod in thanks, and turns to Anakin, who is watching him with a piercing gaze.

“He’s alive?” Anakin asks softly. 

Obi-Wan looks at him, and doesn’t flinch when he sees that Anakin’s eyes are the same colour as Maul’s.

He’d been so young. Obi-Wan knows Anakin only glimpsed Maul vaguely through the window of his cockpit, but for the months afterwards, he remembers comforting his young padawan from nightmares of the Sith Lord. He thinks, suddenly, of his own privilege of being able to know his grandpadawan so well, and thinks of how Qui-Gon never truly had that opportunity.

(Then again, it isn’t like Dooku doesn’t have a twisted version of that privilege.) 

“We don’t know for sure,” Obi-Wan says, but he knows - he _knows_ \- that it’s a lie. “I’ll speak with master Yoda and read the message. For now-” He reaches out, grasping both Anakin and Ahsoka on their shoulders, and gives them a reassuring squeeze. “Stay in control of yourselves.” 

He chuckles when they both say “Yes, Master,” in unison, and sends them a pulse of his gratefulness for their support through the Force. Anakin’s eyes flicker, turning back into a startling blue, before he reaches up to place a hand top of Obi-Wan’s. 

“Let me know,” he says, and Obi-Wan nods, hearing the unsaid words. 

\--

They sit in silence for a few moments after Obi-Wan leaves before Ahsoka speaks up. “Master,” she asks hesitantly, “who is it that you were talking about?”

The details of Maul had been kept from the public. The only common knowledge about him was that he was an assassin, trained in the Jedi Arts, and that he had killed Master Qui-Gon Jinn before being avenged by Obi-Wan. So it stands to reason that Ahsoka would have no idea what they were talking about. 

Anakin wonders, ruefully, if Ahsoka would have loved Master Qui-Gon. 

“The Sith Lord that killed Obi-Wan’s master,” he clarifies for her. “He might be- be alive.” 

Something echoes across their bond, then - the feeling of loss for someone she had never known, but could have. 

“Oh,” she says. 

She doesn’t say much else. 

\--

Ahsoka knows, quite well, actually, that her Master is reckless, and that she is no better. What is easy to forget, however, is that while her dear grandmaster pretends to be well-prepared and logical, he is sometimes _more_ reckless than the two of them combined. 

“You’re a kriffin’ idiot,” Anakin snarls at him. “Maul won’t be alone. _You need backup._ ”

“He will kill more innocents if he senses that I’m not alone,” Obi-Wan snaps, and Ahsoka wonders a little at how stressed he is if his sometimes near-infinite patience seems to be at its end. Then again, it isn’t entirely surprising, given the stress of the chips in the clones’ heads and unforeseen consequences of Mortis working on the three of them. “To have- to have innocent lives on my hands-”

He breaks off, and Anakin growls in frustration. It’s so clearly a trap - personally, Ahsoka wants her own chance to run her blade through the _sleemo_ who killed Obi-Wan’s master, but she isn’t stupid. She’s a padawan and nearly sixteen and not _so_ reckless that she’ll go running headlong into an encounter with a Sith Lord. And while she knows that Master Kenobi is _the_ master of Soresu in living memory, dealing with a renegade Sith Lord and his brother (who was able to hold up against both Master Kenobi _and_ Anakin, which said volumes about his skill) sounded like a surefire way to get killed. 

“He’s a Sith Lord,” Anakin says relentlessly. “How do you know he won’t kill the people anyway?”

Ouch. Ahsoka winces, seeing Obi-Wan recoil at Anakin’s words, and she can’t hold her tongue when she sees his legs dissolve into a blue-green mist. Again. 

She’d held off on asking them about the changes that she had noticed since they returned from Umbara. Clearly, they had discussed it without her, since she knew them well enough to know that Anakin would have been all over Obi-Wan in worry had they not talked about the changes. But she had held back her resentment at the lack of discussion with her because she completely _understood._ The idea of leaving a chip in Rex’s head - in any of their men’s heads - was repulsive at best and needed their immediate attention. 

But now-

“And how do you know that you won’t reveal _this_ to him either?” she asks, cutting off whatever retort had been on the tip of Obi-Wan’s tongue. He flinches, emboldening her to continue. “Master Kenobi, you’re barely even in control of yourself. You- no, _we_ are all slipping, and if you’re hiding it from the Council, what do you think revealing it to Maul would do?”

There’s a hesitant silence from Obi-Wan before he seems to deflate and collapses on a chair. “But what choice do I have?” he asks, and Ahsoka’s heart sinks. He can’t back out of the mission, not without a good reason. He looks up again, giving them both a half-hearted smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “What’s more, I need to know that someone capable is still working on freeing out men. I killed Maul once - I can do it again. I’ll be fine.”

There’s a look in Anakin’s eye - the one that means he’s up to something, but Ahsoka can’t quite decipher what it is. “Fine,” he grumbles. “But I don’t like it. You better make it back, old man, or else I’ll tell Cody just how _stupid_ your plan is.”

Obi-Wan pales a little, at that, and the corners of his mouth tic upwards. “You wouldn’t dare.” 

Anakin swats him on the arm, and his voice softens, cracking with worry. “Come back alive, Obi-Wan, then I’ll see.” 

\--

The moment Obi-Wan leaves, the sun is setting on Coruscant, casting long shadows through the windows of the room. As Ahsoka eyes one of the shadows in the corner, lost in thought, Anakin turns to her. 

“Ahsoka,” he says, and there’s a seriousness in his voice that’s usually only reserved for the most intensive of missions, and she finds herself straightening unconsciously in her seat. “I know we haven’t really spoken of what happened at the Citadel. And… of what’s been happening. With the three of us.” 

She’s not sure what this has to do with Master Kenobi confronting Maul, but this conversation has been long overdue. “The Force Wielders. They left us with… gifts.”

“Yes.” Anakin glances up at the door in worry, then back at her. “There were three beings on Mortis. The Daughter, who left her gifts to you. The Father, who left his to Obi-Wan.” He takes a breath, and she feels him gathering his shields, making sure they’re reinforced. “And the Son.” 

His voice cracks. He’s scared, she realized, he’s kriffing terrified out of his mind, terrified for the clones who have chips in their heads and terrified for Obi-Wan who’s running after Maul and terrified for _himself_. He’d seemed to be in control of himself, these past few days, but she realizes that it was because he was throwing himself into the work behind the chips so that he wouldn’t have to think about it. 

She’s scared, too. The Daughter had been the very essence of the Light, a glowing warmth in the Force, and Ahsoka is not even sixteen or a Knight and she’s terrified of the implications of responsibility that come with being the Daughter’s legacy. 

But that pales in comparison to the implications of the Son’s legacy.

“I don’t want to discuss this in the Temple,” he says. “It’s too dangerous. Obi-Wan thinks the Council will want to restrict our movement if they know the consequences of Mortis.”

Restrict their movement. Right. Ahsoka looks at her Master, really _looks_ at him with the Force and with her training bond, and she thinks she sees something. A mouth too wide, stretching ear to ear. Gargoyle wings of shadow. Golden eyes rimmed in the Son’s crimson. Forget ‘restricting their movement’, she’s terrified the Council will want to lock her master up. 

He shrinks into himself, and to her horror, she realizes that she hasn’t said a word. Immediately realizing that he must have misinterpreted her silence, she reaches out, sending her emotions across their training bond.

_I trust you._

Out loud, she says, “I understand, Master,” and she tries for a reassuring smile, which seems to work as his shoulders relax in relief. “So, I’m to be your distraction while you work your gifts to save Master Kenobi from being too reckless?”

Her voice is too cheerful. To false. She’s trying too hard to sound normal. Regardless, it works, and Anakin’s mouth twists into a semblance of a smile. “Thanks, Snips.” He looks at his desk, at the mess of scribbled notes on flimsi and at the chip hooked up to his datapad, and he glances back. “Take care of our men, Ahsoka.”

Normally, she’d chafe at being left behind. But this is different. Again, she isn’t stupid enough to chase after a Sith Lord, and what’s more, she wants - no, she _needs_ \- to get Rex and the 501st free from the damned chip. The sooner, the better. “I will,” she promises firmly.

He stands, staring into the corner of the room, and Ahsoka finds her eyes drawn to the shadows. She thinks, absurdly, of how when she was imprisoned on Mortis, and how the creature that she later learned was the Son had seemed to come from the shadows, though she had dismissed it as a trick of her eyes at the time. 

Anakin turns to her, and he throws her a salute. “Wish me luck.” 

Then he runs headfirst straight towards the corner of the room.

For a moment, Ahsoka is absolutely convinced that he’s going to smash straight into the wall and collapse, dumbfounded at his own stupidity. He’s running straight towards a solid wall, for Force’s sake, and he’s even leaning into the Force to give himself some speed-

Then his feet strike the shadows and they swallow him, his body dissolving into darkness, and when she searches for his presence in the Force, he is gone. 

\--

**Now.**

His name is _Styles,_ not CC-2943, thank you very much, and he’s looking for his kid Commander who’s stuck aboard General Tugoln’s ship and surrounded by hostiles that used to be Styles’ brothers. 

His stomach churns. He’s heard stories of the sabotaged campaign at Umbara, of how the 501st and 212th had been tricked into firing at each other, and he’d thought that there could be no worse nightmare. Only now, he’s living it, and it’s even worse than he imagined, which should be impossible. 

Because he hasn’t shot at his brothers yet, but he knows he’ll probably have to. Because he knows that if the orders had gone out here, so far from the Core, it means that the orders to activate the kriffing mind-control chips had gone out all over the galaxy, which means that the casualties of his brothers will skyrocket as they shoot at one another. He and his squad had spoken to another squad that belonged to General Tugoln, and it was horrid. They’d addressed each other with their numbers. They’d spoken with monotone voices. There was no recognition in their orders.

With their helmets on, they’d even reminded him of clankers. And that horrified him more than anything else, because he knows that it could’ve been him. He could’ve been the one to pull the trigger on Commander Dume, and he wouldn’t have cared that he’s just an apprentice and still a _kid._

But it isn’t him. He and his squad is moving quickly, hyper-vigilant, because if another squad finds their Commander first, Caleb will die, and Styles cannot let that happen. 

Then the grate above him shifts and something heavy drops to the ground, and one of his brothers - Kaylon - pulls the trigger on instinct, sending a bolt careening towards- towards-

_No!_

But Commander Dume’s lightsaber is out and the blaster bolt is deflected, straight into the lens of the camera that watches the hallway. “I’m alright,” he says, and Styles wants to collapse in relief and beg for forgiveness, because they’d nearly just killed the very person they were trying to rescue. 

“Commander!” Kaylon nearly drops his gun. Even through the helmet, the guilt in his voice is obvious. “I’m so sorry-”

“I foresaw it, Kaylon,” Commander Dume says reassuringly. “Don’t worry. It was necessary to get rid of the camera.”

Right. The cams. Styles wants to smack his palm into his face - how could he have forgotten something so _simple?_ It could have thrown a wrench into his plans, and the entire operation would have failed. 

“Plan is to play along with the others that are mind-controlled and to get you safely off the ship, sir,” Styles says. “They don’t know we’re in control of ourselves.” He looks at the Commander - he’s tiny, just a kid, and he sighs. “I’m sorry about General Billaba, kid.”

Commander Dume seems to sag, his shoulders falling in sorrow. “Thanks, Styles. I-” 

Then his head jerks up, and he ignites his lightsaber. 

“There’s a squad en route, one minute away,” he snaps. “Shoot at me. I’ll play dead, and you can get me off safely.” 

“What?!” Styles wants to smack his Commander upside the head. “There’s _no way-_ ”

“Trust me, Styles. That’s an order!” Caleb snaps, and suddenly, his hand flings out and one of Styles’ brothers finds himself flying backwards, hitting the wall with a gentle _thump._

And Styles opens fire.

He hates every second of it. He aims for the shoulder, for the side of the head, for just beside the limbs, because what if he messes up and hits the kid, he knows the kid is a Jedi and that faking his death is actually a plan with the most chance of success for all of them and- 

He hears the rhythmic thumping of a squad arriving, of boots striking the hard floor, and Commander Dume jumps into the air, then screams as a shot seems to strike him in the chest. And he collapses to the floor, lightsaber rolling from limp fingers, and Styles’ heart is in his throat.

“Hold your fire, we got him!” he shouts, and he hopes it’s loud enough for the mind-controlled soldiers to hear. His voice feels strangled and he feels his stomach churning. Beside him, he can feel the terror pouring off his brothers in waves, and he runs to Commander Dume’s side and grasps his wrist, feeling for a pulse. 

Caleb’s fingers twitch, noticeable enough for Styles and his men, but not enough to be noticed by the others.

_A-L-I-V-E._

It’s all he can do to keep from collapsing in relief. He makes the subtle hand sign to his men, and though there’s no visible change in their demeanour, he can feel the quiet sighs of relief.

“Has the target been eliminated?” The voice of one of General Tugoln’s men sounds harsh in his ears, and Styles stiffens, but his voice comes out in the same monotone when he replies.

“He has. We’ll take the body back to our ship.” As Styles speaks, he’s unnerved to notice that he can’t see the rising and falling of Caleb’s chest. He looks well and truly dead, with smoke rising from the burnt hole in his robes, and though Styles is well aware that his Commander is alive, the degree of realism in the faking of this death makes him want to vomit.

The other clone shrugs. “Very well. Will you need assistance?”

Styles shakes his head. “We’ve got it from here.” Then he pauses, but decides to take the risk. General Billaba and his brother deserve this. “On second thought, we’d like to retrieve the bodies of Commander Grey and General Billaba for proper burial.”

The trooper doesn’t question it, which is a nice surprise. “Alright.” The trooper activates his comlink. “Call off the search, target has been eliminated.” He hesitates, then continues with, “Bring the bodies of Commander Grey and General Billaba to the hangar bay for transport. They may have been traitors, but we’re soldiers of the Republic, and we still give the dead the right to a burial.”

Styles is gritting his teeth so hard that he’s sure his jaw will explode, but he manages a short nod in thanks. Traitors, his ass. He doesn’t want to be angry at the brothers who are being mind-controlled - it’s not their fault - but he really, really wants to take his fist into someone’s face right now.

No. No losing control. Right now, he needs to get his Commander off this damned ship, then he can lose it and knock back a few drinks.

The walk to the hangar is filled with silence. They’d been provided a stretcher for Caleb’s body. He looks too still, too small, and when they finally reach the hangar and see the covered bodies of General Billaba and Commander Grey, all Styles can think of is how wrong they look, too. They should be alive, smiling, filled with energy, but instead, they’re cold and dead and gone. 

They pile inside the ship. It lifts off, and they wait for a full minute before Styles says, “Commander, all clear.” 

Caleb’s eyes snap open and there’s a rush of colour into his face. He sits up, wincing. “Thank you, Styles.”

Kaylon places a gentle hand on the Commander’s shoulder. “Are you injured, sir?”

“I had to allow myself to be grazed,” he mumbles, and the entire crew of clones groans in mild distress and Kaylon reaches for the medkit. The pain seems to be nothing, though, because in that moment, Caleb’s eyes fall on the covered body of his master, and they fill with a sadness so deep that it’s a wonder he doesn’t immediately burst into tears.

“I’m so sorry, Commander,” Styles tries to say, but it comes out croaky and sounding wholly inadequate. “We managed to retrieve them, but it’s all- it’s all we could do.”

Caleb doesn’t speak. All he does is stare and stare and stare, and in that moment, Styles is forcibly reminded that the kid is thirteen and way too young to be experiencing such things, so the moment Kaylon has the bandages and bacta in place, Styles wraps his arms around his Commander and tells him, “It’s alright, kid. We got you.”

Styles’ brothers surround them, each placing a supportive arm or hand around the Commander, and he cries and he cries and Styles is crying too because this is the only time he’s ever seen Caleb ever act his age and it’s unfair and it’s cruel. It’s not alright. It’s not okay at all. But now, in a tiny ship en route to their flagship of freed clones, there is nothing more they can do than cling to one another in solidarity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anakin's newfound ability will be explored more in the upcoming chapters, I promise, and we'll get back to the creepy Eldritch aspect next chapter as well. 
> 
> Everyone is canon except for Master Tugoln.


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm most definitely picking some lore from the EU and playing around with it. 
> 
> Warning for gore and violence.
> 
> Unbeta'd, as usual.

**Then.**

Anakin’s plan nearly fails immediately in the sense that while his goal is to keep Obi-Wan alive, he nearly kills his poor master with a heart-attack the moment he shows up. 

Really, Obi-Wan thinks, he should have known better. But now he’s got Anakin pinned against the wall with a saber against his throat and a blue-green mist against his body and Obi-Wan is absolutely furious, because while Anakin has been reckless before, he has never done it with innocent lives on the line. 

“What in the universe are you _thinking_ , Anakin?” Obi-Wan shouts, and he doesn’t miss Anakin’s flinch. He jerks backward, deactivating the lightsaber he had pulled out on instinct. “There are _innocent lives at stake_ , and now we’ve wasted time-” He breaks off, frustration rising within him at how _stupid_ Anakin had been, sneaking onto the ship like that, and now they’ll have to turn back-

And Obi-Wan stops. He hadn’t been sloppy, he was sure of it, but the thing was, he hadn’t sensed Anakin at all. 

Indignantly, Anakin straightens. “I was _thinking_ that you were going to get yourself killed, and that you needed backup,” he says, acting as though he isn’t shaken from nearly getting vivisected by his furious master. He eyes Obi-Wan cautiously. “I surprised you. You didn’t sense me.”

“I didn’t.” Which brings him to a different problem. Their bond was the strongest in the Order - strong enough that when they were in very close proximity, it was impossible to be completely blocked off from one another. If Anakin had snuck on the ship, he would have noticed. “How did you get on the ship?”

Anakin grimaces, then steps backwards into the shadows of the ship, and his Force-presence disappears as his body collapses into shadow. 

Well - _disappears_ is the wrong word for it. One moment, Obi-Wan can recognize the meld of red-blue-black that is his former padawan, and the next, it _changes_ , turning into the dull unassuming blandness that is what the ship feels like in the Force. He really shouldn’t be surprised - Obi-Wan is well aware that he seems to have inherited the gift of teleportation from the Father, so it stands to reason that Anakin would have been gifted a similar ability from the Son. Nonetheless, it is still shocking to witness.

“I’ve never seen you speechless before, Obi-Wan,” Anakin’s voice teases, and it seems to come from the ship itself, from the shadows cast on the floor and from the walls and ceiling. Obi-Wan reaches across their training bond, intending to pinpoint Anakin’s presence, and encounters shadows instead - shadows which feel like emptiness and obscurity. It doesn’t feel like how his bond with Qui-Gon felt - empty, dead, and filled with nothingness, but rather, it feels clouded. Blurry.

Dark.

“I can’t sense your presence,” he says back in awe, a tinge of horror lacing his voice. “I can’t pinpoint where you are, even with our bond.”

The voice comes back, smug and arrogant. “If you can’t sense me, what makes you think Maul will?”

The mention of Maul snaps Obi-Wan out of his awe, realizing again the seriousness of the situation. “Even so, when did you learn to do this?” he demands. “As far as I’m aware, you had never used this ability before.”

From the far side of the cockpit, the Force twitches, and Obi-Wan turns his head to watch the shadows twist and lift, forming a figure that coalesces into Anakin’s body. His mouth twists into another grimace that seems to slash open his face from ear to ear. “I… hadn’t used it before,” he mumbles.

Right now, Anakin’s body is half-solid and half-shadow, with a face that’s slashed open with a mouth with too many teeth and eyes that glow the same gold as Maul. Right now, there are wings of shadow spreading across the cockpit in the Force, covering the walls and ceiling with its large span. 

Right now, Obi-Wan doesn’t even care about those features, because it is taking every ounce of his Jedi training to not smash his face into the ship console at the sheer stupidity of Anakin’s words.

“So - your plan was to sneak onboard with an ability you had never used before, hope that it worked, then maybe take on Maul with me provided that he didn’t sense you?” At the sound of his horrible plan laid bare, Anakin winces again, and Obi-Wan finally gives in to his desire to bury his face in his hands. “Brilliant! Just, brilliant- Force, Anakin, what were you _thinking_?”

“Hey, it worked!” Anakin says defensively, hands raised as if in surrender. “And from the sound of it, it _will_ work, and you won’t die running straight into an obvious trap, so I think this counts as a success.”

“You are the most reckless, impertinent, Force-damned-” Obi-Wan breaks off his short tirade with a groan, throwing his hands in the air. “Damn you, Anakin.”

He only receives a cocky smile in return. “Admit it, Obi-Wan, you’re glad I’ve come along.” 

With his face buried in his hands, the “Damn you” Obi-Wan shoots back comes out muffled, and Anakin breaks into laughter.

\--

On Coruscant, Ahsoka tries her utmost not to shout in triumph when she finally breaks through the encryption of the chips. 

The desire to comm her masters is _extremely strong_ right now, but she trusts Obi-Wan’s instructions. Even the most secure comm could be tapped into, and this is not something worth taking even the most minuscule risk. 

Her eyes scan the code. Page upon page of information and deception slams into her brain, making her feel dizzy with the depths of complexity that she can find in this treachery. On the surface, the one-hundred-and-fifty contingency orders look to be normal, but the Force nudges her and her fingers move on their own. She scrolls, and she scrolls, and she scrolls, and the Force screams at her to read the one staring back at her right now.

Order 66. 

_In the event of Jedi officers acting against the interests of the Republic, and after receiving specific orders verified as coming directly from the Supreme Commander, GAR commanders will remove those officers by lethal force, and command of the GAR will revert to the Supreme Commander until a new command structure is established._

She wants to vomit. 

She thinks of how the document Obi-Wan had found which approved what essentially were slave chips had been signed by the Chancellor, who she is well aware serves as the Supreme Commander of the GAR in title. 

Removal the Jedi by lethal force from the word of one man.

This is not something she can do on her own. 

Gathering her emotions into a mental ball, she throws it to the Force, drawing on the strength of the Light in the Temple, and she’s grateful that she’s alone in her quarters when her skin begins to glow. She’s slipping, she knows, but she needs to remain calm. If this is what she suspects, this goes far beyond what she could even fathom, but she needs to find if there is a solution. 

After another two hours of scanning the code, she lets out a sigh of relief, her body so stiff from stress that the sigh makes her shake. She’s double-checked and triple-checked, but there are no safeties built in to kill the clones or to activate the chips if they are being removed. Good. This means she can start working as fast as possible. 

But she needs help. After seeing Order 66, she’s wary of walking alone onto a ship of clones who could be mind-controlled in an instant. It’s horrific and she hates it and she wants it out of them as soon as possible, but she cannot do it alone. And though she and her masters had kept it to themselves, this is something that needs to be told to the Council. 

She gathers a report and sends a silent apology to her masters, then heads to find Master Yoda. 

\--

When they are ten minutes away in hyperspace, Anakin melts back into the shadows of the ship. 

“I’ll follow along, Obi-Wan, don’t worry about me.” Anakin’s disembodied voice echoes through the systems of the ship, making it sound like he _is_ the shuttle. “You might not be able to sense me, but I can sense you.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about you getting _lost,_ Anakin,” Obi-Wan quips back. “I’m worried about you doing something even more reckless and getting us both killed.”

Even without being able to sense his former padawan, Obi-Wan knows he is rolling his eyes. “Don’t be so paranoid, Master. We’ll surprise Maul, take care of him, and go home.”

Though their bond is obscured, Obi-Wan tries to send Anakin a wave of exasperation, and is pleasantly surprised when he receives a teasing poke in return. 

“I can’t believe you got your padawan in on this plan,” he mutters. 

“Hey, Ahsoka is perfectly capable,” Anakin retorts, and Obi-Wan smiles at the pride he hears in Anakin’s voice. “I trust her to take care of our men.” 

“That, I can agree with,” he says, checking the navicomputer. Nine minutes to real space. “Just… be on guard. I don’t want you to interfere unless you’re certain I need help.” 

For a moment, there’s silence, and Obi-Wan is about to repeat himself out of worry that he wasn’t heard before Anakin’s voice echoes back. “I’ll deal with Opress. You should have no problem dealing with Maul.” A sigh, then, in a wry tone, “You didn’t have a problem keeping me contained above Umbara.” 

Obi-Wan remembers the Darkness coiling around Anakin like a whip and the predatory gold in his eyes, and he remembers too the way he had held his former padawan on his knees until he had relented. “I suppose I didn’t,” he says, and they both ignore the slight tremor in his voice. 

He holds out his hands and falls into the Force, remembering the feeling of being formless and made of mist, and watches as his fingers dissolve. 

He takes a look at the navicomputer. Eight minutes to real space. He probably shouldn’t have waited so long, yet…

He falls deeper still, imagining the formlessness surrounding his body, and his blood sings as his body dissolves into Mist. 

At the Altar of Mortis, the Daughter had led him to the Dagger formed of pure Force. The remnants of the altar had sunken through his gloves and into his skin, and he had left the planet with gifts he had not understood. 

He understands, now. The Father’s eyes had been the same blue-green of the Force that formed the Dagger. They had been the same blue-green of the flames of the Altar. They were the same blue-green of the mist that is dissolving Obi-Wan’s body. 

He becomes formless, and thus becomes one with the Force.

He isn’t _dead_ , that much is certain. What he does know is that when he meditated in the past, compared to this, he was blind. The Force surrounding him is a beautiful kaleidoscope of colours, his blue-green mixing in a sea of reds and blues and yellows and so many others. The metal of the ship around him is alive, the stars around him bright, the shadows a vivid black that does not seem any less alive. 

In the sea of colours, he finds his bond with Anakin, coloured with the red-black of the Son and no longer obscured by the shadows. Anakin’s presence in the Force smiles, fangs of venom bared in delight. 

_So this is how you feel like when you’re made of shadow,_ Obi-Wan sends through his bond.

 _I… did not expect this to happen, Master,_ Anakin sends back. His form in the Force blurs, half-shadow and half-Force, the only solid feature the beautiful molten gold of his eyes. _It felt like what you described to me when I stepped into the shadows. One moment, you were… you, and the next, you became the Force around you._

They aren’t talking, not really. Mind-speaking through their bond was normally possible in short bursts when they were in close proximity, but even then, their connection had never been as strong as this. In comparison to the now, where they can allow their thoughts to shape and convey their meanings with ease, speaking with the mouth feels clumsy, mind-speaking inadequate. 

_The Force is beautiful,_ Obi-Wan thinks, and he senses Anakin’s agreement.

 _It makes me feel alive,_ Anakin replies. _Like I was blind before, but now…_

A sharp chime, sounding as though it is from far away, rings out in warning. One minute to real space. In mild shock, Obi-Wan realizes that seven minutes have passed as if it were a second. 

He concentrates on reality, on the feeling of being grounded by a physical form, and returns to his body. 

A whistle echoes from the shadows within the ship. “If you learn how to use that, I don’t think Maul will stand a chance,” Anakin teases. 

As the ship pulls into real space, Obi-Wan rolls his eyes. “Don’t get too cocky, Anakin.”

Then they enter the atmosphere, and though the massacre had occurred hours before and kilometers away, he hears the screams in the Force.

\--

Even within the heart of the Temple, surrounded by thousands and thousands of flickering Lights, Grandmaster Yoda senses one of them approaching his room, filled with a fear that darkens her flame. As Padawan Tano approaches his quarters, he gestures, and his door opens just as she is about to knock. 

“In great distress, you are, Padawan Tano,” he says gently, and she stiffens. “A problem, there is?”

In the Force, she feels like a coil of terror, and he sends her a wave of soothing calm through the Force so that she may not lose focus. It works - somewhat - and while the edge of her terror is smoothed out, he can still sense the fear she holds for the Jedi Order. 

“Master Yoda.” She steps into his quarters and sketches a quick bow, one of her hands clutching tightly at a datapad. “I’ve come across information that requires the immediate attention of the Council. I believe the consequences could lead to the end of the Order if we do not act quickly.”

Ah. So that explains her terror. After centuries of training, Yoda maintains enough control not to seize the datapad from her fingers. Instead, a frown crosses his face, and he hums. “Deeply troubling, this is. Wish for me, to review your information, do you?”

“Yes, please, Master Yoda,” she says, and she hands him the datapad.

Her report is concise and efficient, and at his side, she maintains the straight-backed posture of a soldier, and Yoda’s heart aches at the necessity of sending her to the frontlines of battle. She is but a child, yet she has never had the opportunity to be one.

Then, as he reads the information she has presented before him, the Force screams to him that what she has uncovered is correct, is urgent, is _dangerous,_ and he berates himself too for being unable to see young Ahsoka had uncovered. This is dire indeed. 

“Severe, this is,” he says, and Padawan Tano’s shoulders droop slightly in relaxation. “Correct you were, in taking this to me. To the Council, I will take this. Give the report, and advise us on procedures, you shall.” 

“Advise the Council?” Surprise colours her tone. “But I’m just a padawan.”

“A padawan, you may be, yet wisdom, you still hold, hm?” Yoda reaches out, tapping her on the shins with his gimer stick, and she yelps. “Underestimate yourself, you must not. To the Force, listen, you must. Tell you, what does it?”

Ruefully, she rubs her shins, and her eyebrows scrunch together as she concentrates. “To help,” she says slowly. “To advise.”

“As the Force wills it, all is,” he says kindly. The Light of the Force sings to him, a good feeling pooling in his gut, and he knows they have taken a step in the right direction. “Come, Padawan.”

\--

**Now.**

His designation is CC-1010. The Jedi are traitors. The senators have attempted a coup. Coruscant must be on lockdown to prevent a second galactic Civil War from breaking out in the midst of the first. 

His armor feels heavy on his limbs and his helmet on his face feels stuffy. Underneath, his clothes are sticky with sweat and his feet ache from running for hours. 

Coruscant is a disaster. CC-1010 does not understand how such a coup could have been pulled off by the senators and the Jedi - there was no explanation given from Command. But his priorities are clear. He is a soldier, and he’s been given his orders to follow. 

From the reports he’s been receiving, the orders have been carried through with moderate success. More than half of the senators have been dealt with through lethal force and many battalions in the Outer Rim have reported success in eliminating the Jedi leadership, yet some targets are proving especially tricky, especially the Jedi Temple. 

CC-1010 grits his teeth. Ordering an orbital bombardment had been a failure - the Coruscant Guard’s fleet was being occupied by a Jedi general and his battalion, which had seen fit to follow the traitor into turning their back on the Republic. The cannons on the ground had been ineffective as well - it was almost as though the Jedi scum had thought of every possibility, though with their sorcerous abilities, it wasn’t entirely implausible. CC-1010 didn’t think the Temple would have carried a shield generator, yet every attempt to get to that thrice-cursed generator has been a failure so far. 

“Fan out,” he snaps through his comm. “Surround the Temple - report back if any of you can create an entry point at one of the sides. Concentrate fire on weak points.”

There was a bombing at the Temple, a month prior, caused by a former Jedi. CC-1010 wonders how they hadn’t seen that as a clue that the Jedi were going crazy and turning traitor. Now, however, he wonders if that could potentially be the clue to breaking into the Temple and eliminating the targets. 

And the traitor soldiers.

He doesn’t understand it. Not only had the 104th battalion defected in the skies above Coruscant, from the sounds of it, dozens and maybe hundreds of battalions around the galaxy and on Coruscant had defected as well. Even the well-reputed 212th and 501st battalions that had claimed to serve the Republic and the Supreme Chancellor had turned traitor and defected, standing with the Jedi and the Senators. CC-1010 doesn’t understand it at all, but damn them. Damn them all. He knows his priorities. 

He’s a good soldier, and good soldiers follow orders. 

His feet pound against the ground as he circles the perimeter with his men. The air around them is hot from the flames and clogged with dust, making their helmet filters whine loudly as it works to sift through the tained air, and there’s an indescribable amount of noise coming from all sides. The sounds of blaster bolts, of explosions, of crashes and screams blends into a whine that sounds too familiar. This is the sound of war, of devastation, and CC-1010 curses the Jedi scum and the bastard senators who turned their backs on the Supreme Chancellor and the Republic. There will be collateral damage, he knows it, and he curses the traitors who made the death of innocents necessary. 

The Temple is being defended by troopers of the 187th legion too, who have seen fit to defect. What baffles CC-1010 is the fact that none of the Jedi have run forward to decimate the Coruscant guard and the fact that the traitor battalions are apparently using stun bolts. It doesn’t add up. Perhaps they’re doing it to hold the moral high ground? In any case, he doesn’t understand why the traitors are pulling such stupid tactics. 

There is a small part of him that wonders why exactly this doesn’t all add up. He had trusted the Jedi, this seemed so unlike them, so perhaps the orders are wron-

His designation is CC-1010. The Jedi are traitors. The senators have attempted a coup. Coruscant must be on lockdown to prevent a second galactic Civil War from breaking out in the midst of the first. 

What was he thinking about again?

Right. The traitors of the 187th legion. They’re holding a firm perimeter, taking shelter behind the many Jedi that protect them, and every so often, one of CC-1010’s men falls to one of their shots or to projectiles which seem to come out from behind the Temple walls. Darts, perhaps. Probably filled with a lethal poison. CC-1010 takes shelter behind rubble, shooting at the traitors, at the Jedi, but his shots are always deflected away by a saber blade. 

They can’t even use grenades. They’ve worked with the Jedi enough to know that grenades will be deflected away with the ‘Force’, or whatever they call it. 

His breath feels hot against the inside of his helmet. His head is pounding, a dull throbbing ache in the side of his head, probably caused by some shrapnel or something he hadn’t noticed. Someone is trying to scream into his ears. One of the 187th? “Commander Fox!” they’re shouting. “Stand down! Commander Fox!”

Who in the universe is Commander Fox? 

At the back of his mind, memories that seem blurred rise up. Memories of his men - his… brothers? - calling him that name. Fox? Was that his name? Why-

His designation is CC-1010. The Jedi are traitors. The senators have attempted a coup. Coruscant must be on lockdown to prevent a second galactic Civil War from breaking out in the midst of the first. 

One of the Jedi in front of him - a male twi’lek - is struck, collapsing to the steps, and he feels a pang of victory. Of course he’s feeling vindicated. Why would he feel remorseful? He thinks it’s distasteful that none of the Jedi are even trying to help their fallen brother, their faces unchanging from the stony resolve he had seen for the past couple hours. But what does he know of a cult of traitor sorcerers? For all he knows, maybe they’re just saving the body to be revived with some witchcraft later. 

So why does he suddenly feel like he wants to be sick? Why does he feel remorse for killing the Jedi? They were a target, and they were eliminated. He remembers that Jedi, remembers standing alongside him, and he tries to push away the memories with the memories of the betrayal, of the announcement that the Jedi leadership had turned on them, but even as his finger continues to pull on the trigger, he knows that something just doesn’t feel righ-

His designation is CC-1010. The Jedi are traitors. The senators have attempted a coup. Coruscant must be on lockdown to prevent a second galactic Civil War from breaking out in the midst of the first. 

CC-1010 sees the arrival of the flametrooper, and he grins, because at last, there’s something that can help them deal with the Jedi. Though the traitors could deflect the flame with their strange telekinetic powers, that would leave them open to blaster bolts as long as they concentrated on holding back the fire. Perfect.

Much is unclear right now. CC-1010 doesn’t know how all the senators have turned tail, or how the Jedi betrayed the Chancellor, but what he does know is that he’s a good soldier, and that

good

soldiers 

follow 

orders.

\--

**Then.**

The moment he senses the ship land with the Jedi inside, Savage gets the feeling that something is very, very wrong. 

“He came alone,” Maul says in a quiet delight, but Savage isn’t so sure. The bad feeling he’s getting comes not from the Force, nor from the bodies he sees around him or the wreckage of the village, but in his blood, the blood of the Nightbrothers of Dathomir. 

_Caution,_ his blood sings. _Danger. Darkness._

As a Nightbrother, he knows their heightened powers borne from their blood is a gift from the Fanged God. The clan elders had long taught how their abilities in combat - their strength, their swiftness, their instinct - were gifts. And when the god’s gift speaks, one would do well to _listen._

“Do you sense that, brother?” he mutters uneasily. “The singing in our blood?”

But his brother misunderstands. “Yes,” Maul says, reveling in his own fantasies. “The time for revenge is near.”

“No,” Savage tries again. “There is a warning. The Fanged God-”

Maul holds out a hand, cutting him off, uncaring of his words. “He is near,” he snarls, referencing the Jedi, and Savage can sense his brother drawing on the death and destruction they had left in the surrounding villages. The Dark Side is strong here, especially after the carnage, and though Savage can feel his own strength enhanced by the Dark, the feeling of warning holds him back.

There is something else. As the time of confrontation had drawn nearer, Savage had felt the Dark strengthening, heightening his aggression as his blood sang during the carnage wrought upon the village. But now...

He has a bad feeling about this.

\--

The moment Obi-Wan opens the door to the shuttle, he sees the bodies.

There are no remnants of weapons. The village is silent, windows broken and doors kicked in, fabrics torn to shreds, and in the Force, there is a gaping hole where there used to be hundreds of lives.

This was no battle. This was a slaughter. 

He can still hear the screams. The lingering terror of the families, where the father and mother tried desperately to protect their children, only to fail. The lingering agony of the few warriors in the village, who tried to fight and died too quickly. The lingering suffering of the many children, playing outside, who will never reach adulthood because of the wrath of one man. 

The clouds of smoke above the village leave it in a reddish-grey haze, bathing the walls in a light that Obi-Wan has seen too much on the battlefield. As he walks, he releases his emotions into the Force. He cannot lose control - he must be focused. He must be in control to bring about justice for these deaths. 

(From the corner of his eyes, he swears he can see the shadows of the buildings moving ever so slightly, as if something is moving in-between them. If he turns to look, he sees nothing, and he can put it off to a figment of his imagination.

He knows it’s not, of course. He’s not alone.)

In the distance, he can sense a presence, Dark and heavy with rage and suffering and malice, and as he walks towards it, the bodies begin to rise in number, sprawled across the streets or through windows, sometimes in more than one piece. There is something beyond disturbing about them - not only are there bodies of children - _children!_ \- lying with their faces frozen in agony, or bodies of mothers still wrapped around their family, there is something else-

He sees it again, and though he is a Jedi master, his rage boils. The bodies were not like this earlier, but as he approaches Maul, it becomes very, very clear that this is all a taunt. A slaughter for the purpose of revenge.

All of the bodies have been systematically cut in half, severed at the waist. 

There is a growing anger, from both within and without. His blood boils, his hand itching for his lightsaber, but part of him wonders if he truly needs it. 

He can sense the anger emanating from the shadows that is not his own.

“Jedi!”

He hears the clang of metallic feet, and looks above him into the face of his master’s murderer.

“I have been waiting for you,” snarls Maul, and this is just as he remembered, with a presence boiling with malice and rage and eyes that betrayed the depths of hatred it carried. He remembers those eyes, glittering in a sadistic glee as Qui-Gon was impaled. “You cannot imagine the depths I would go through to stay alive, fueled by my singular hatred for you.”

The air seems to be getting darker. Obi-Wan isn’t sure if it’s because the sun is setting behind the clouds of smoke or because of the Darkness Maul carries within him. “You know, I’m not quite sure I’ve made your acquaintance,” he snarks. He still doesn’t know where Opress is - perhaps, if he keeps Maul talking, Opress will reveal himself. “After all, I don’t remember you being quite so talkative.”

Maul growls. “I am surprised you could have forgotten me so easily after I killed your master and you left me for dead on Naboo.”

And Obi-Wan remembers.

He remembers the shock lancing through his training bond, the agony on Qui-Gon’s face, the glee in Maul’s feral smile. 

He remembers taking Qui-Gon’s lightsaber and the feeling of cutting through flesh and bone, too late to save his master.

Too late.

Too late.

Too late too late toolate _toolatetoo_ -

And, worst of all, he remembers his training bond with Qui-Gon, alight with pain, with suffering, and then, nothingness. 

Empty. 

Twelve years later, the broken bond has shriveled to dust, and it aches like a missing limb.

“I remember,” he shoots back, and his saber is alight in his hands, washing the darkening village with its blue light. “And what’s more, I remember I defeated you before - and I will defeat you again.”

For the people of the village.

For Qui-Gon. 

But Maul does not rise to the taunt. Instead, he laughs, dark and arrogant. “Don’t be so certain.”

Something lands heavily behind Obi-Wan, and it’s only instinct honed by decades of training that prevents him from losing his limbs. “You!” Obi-Wan snaps at Opress, but he’s been caught off-guard. Opress’ blows are powerful, each of them sending sharp tremors up Obi-Wan’s limbs, and he can sense that he will soon be surrounded as Maul lands behind him. 

This is bad. This is very, very bad. One on one, he can hold out, but by himself, he’s outmatched, and he’s surrounded and alone. But there are abilities he could use. The millisecond before Maul cuts him in half, he remembers the feeling of formlessness and concentrates on a spot behind Opress, and the Force lurches as he moves through space-time and teleports precisely five meters back. 

It works, but not as well as it should. Maul shouts in surprise as his saber meets empty air and Opress spins in surprise as Obi-Wan reels from a backhanded blow to his face. He lashes out and throws them backwards with a Force push. He’s bought himself a precious few seconds - he needs to leave, now. His head is spinning from the blow and his vision is getting darker, the shadows elongating, the-

The shadows. The village is getting darker not because of the setting sun or his spinning head, but because of the growing shadows which are pooling around Obi-Wan’s feet.

“ _You should not have touched him,”_ echoes a voice from the shadows, and though Maul looks around in surprise, it is Opress’ reaction that shocks Obi-Wan, for he goes pale and his eyes widen in obvious terror. 

“The Fanged God!” whispers Opress, but his voice is lost in the rush of wind as the shadows at Obi-Wan’s feet rise above him, bathing him in a cold caress, and they pass over him to collect into a figure that forms in front of him. Darkness, far colder and more powerful than the two Nightbrothers, bursts into reality before him, and Obi-Wan stares as the man who looks like a guardian angel of death appears before him. 

“Darth Maul,” says Anakin, only it isn’t really Anakin, because his voice echoes with the voice of the Son and his wings of shadow are unfurling to block out the sky, shielding Obi-Wan from the vengeful brothers. “Savage Opress.” 

Terror is leaking from Opress in waves, but Maul is furious, igniting his saber in a rage at his interrupted revenge. “Skywalker,” he growls. “I should have killed you when you were a child.”

From his position behind Anakin, Obi-Wan cannot see the smile that slashes open his former padawan’s face.

“You should have,” Anakin replies airly, and his lightsaber is alive in his hands, pulsing between the blue Obi-Wan sees with his eyes and the crimson that he sees in the Force. His presence is pulsing with a vicious red-black, his body coiled like a cat ready to pounce upon its prey, and Obi-Wan suddenly remembers how Anakin had described the death of Pong Krell, and wonders if he is going to witness something similar happening again. 

\--

In the midst of her report to the Council, Ahsoka stiffens as a wave of darkness flows across her training bonds with her masters. The Councilors wait expectantly for her to continue her report, but several of them pick up on her distress. 

“Are you alright, ‘Soka?” Plo asks her gently. 

There’s so much darkness. The other end of her bond with Anakin is a screaming red-black and her bond with Obi-Wan is a terrifying blue-green mist that obscures her vision. 

“Padawan?” Master Yoda calls out. “Padawan!” 

With a start, she realizes that she has nearly given not only herself but also Anakin away to the Council, and nearly frantically looks down and tries not to sigh in relief when she sees that her skin is normal and not glowing. 

“I’m sorry, Masters,” she manages, and she tries to alleviate their concerns. “I sensed a darkness from my bond with Master Kenobi.” 

Masters Windu and Yoda exchange a worried glance. “He has engaged Darth Maul, then,” Master Windu says. “Do you sense anything else?”

“I- no.” She concentrates, but finds no answers, and draws firmly on her shields, releasing her distress into the Force. “I don’t think he’s in trouble.”

Her voice must not have hidden her doubt very well. “Sending him alone was a mistake,” Master Windu says, and through his stern facade, she can sense the great worry he holds for his friend. “We should have sent reinforcements.” 

Ahsoka bites her tongue, remembering how Anakin had gone with Obi-Wan without permission. 

Yoda’s ears droop, yet in the Force, she can sense that he still holds great hope. “Alone, he will not be,” he says, and Ahsoka later congratulates herself for having a sabacc face able to fool the Council. “Return to us, Obi-Wan will. For now, focus on the report, we must, and trust in the Force, we shall.”

Master Windu scowls, but does not argue, and he turns expectantly back to Ahsoka. “Continue, Padawan Tano.”

She grits her teeth, then turns back to her report on the inhibitor chips. 

\--

**Before.**

_The clones are attacking her and Barriss. Ahsoka doesn’t understand what is happening, but what she does know is that she’s scared and almost alone on a ship full of hostile clones._

_It’s unlike them. It’s like there’s something else controlling their minds. She had never before imagined her men turning on them - but now, she imagines the battalions and battalions of clones turning against their generals, and winces. It doesn’t paint a pretty picture._

_But it won’t happen. This is an anomaly, she’s sure of it. But she’ll survive this. Somehow._

_And through it all, she’s grateful that she has Barriss, at least. She’s glad that she’s found a loyal friend in the other padawan, and she hopes their friendship will last for a lifetime._

_When she gets out of this, she swears she will do two things, made with the idealistic spirit of a fourteen-year-old girl forced to fight in wars: one, she will try her best to ensure the clones are never forced into a situation where they have to attack the Jedi leadership, and two, she will maintain her friendship with Barriss forever._

\--

**Now.**

(She’s failed both those vows, and her heart burns when she realizes it.)

\--

**Then.**

The moment the Fanged God appears from the shadows, Savage becomes aware of two things: That one, he should not have followed his brother into ignoring the warning that had been singing in their blood, and that two, unless the Parent - whom they had just ambushed - decided to show mercy, Savage and his brother might as well consider themselves dead. Both of these realizations culminate into a singular hatred for his brother as Maul launches himself forward, intending on striking down the Fanged God in the name of revenge on Kenobi. 

Savage is, well - he’s certainly not _stupid._ He may not have the wisdom of Mother Talzin or the dangerous intelligence of Ventress or the sharp cunning of his brother, but he most certainly has _common sense,_ something his brother seems to be lacking in the extreme. “Brother!” he snaps, and he throws his hand forward and _pulls_ , sending Maul tumbling backward. “Stop being a fool. Are you _trying_ to continue to incur the wrath of Fanged God and his Parent? Mother will have your head!”

But his brother is lost. Completely. Maul is driven mad with the desire for revenge, his eyes burning fiercely as he whips around and lashes out with his anger, and Savage is suddenly gasping for air, scrabbling at his throat as Maul raises his hand and squeezes. “Do not interrupt me, apprentice! There are no gods, only two Jedi who have tried to dabble in the magicks of Dathomir!” His hand jerks open, as if he is in the midst of a spasm, and Savage drops to his knees, reeling from the sudden abuse, as Maul turns back to the Fanged God and attacks again. 

A part of Savage that had never disappeared even after the Nightsisters had Changed him with their magicks nudges at his mind, telling him to flee, to beg for mercy, and it wonders bitterly if he will die here after being used by three masters. 

The Fanged God is laughing, rows and rows of teeth bared to show his glee, and Savage tries not to gape in awe at the sheer power of Darkness he can sense rolling from the god. As Maul rushes forward, saber blade flashing in a deadly whirl of crimson, the Fanged God meets him blow for blow, his lightsaber blade flickering between the azure Savage remembers from Toydaria and a crimson that matches his own weapon. 

Gods. Savage had fought these two Jedi before, when they were but human. When they were but pitiful Jedi. But something had changed, and as he remembers the sudden shift he had sensed in the Force not long ago, he wonders why the gods of Dathomir had seen fit to leave their legacy to these Jedi.

(But where is the Winged Goddess?)

His saberstaff feels heavy in his hands and he can hear his heart in his ears. Stories of the Fanged God, told year after year by the Nightbrother elders, rise up in his mind’s eye, and just as he remembers the deadly storms of Dathomir, the Fanged God releases a storm of his own, his blade knocking Maul’s aside and his left hand rising to unleash lightning from his fingertips. 

Maul is screaming. The smell of burnt flesh begins to permeate the air, the crimson lightning relentless in its punishment, and Savage remembers the feeling of his flesh being burnt by Dooku’s lightning, and can only imagine the pain his brother is going through. The Fanged God, however, is smiling in delight, his eyes alight with a golden malice. He strides forward, wings of shadow stretching out to fill the sky, his blue-red lightsaber alight in one hand and red lightning crackling across another. “No gods?” he asks, his voice echoing between something human and something _more._ “You’re right. We aren’t gods, but you will face your fate.”

The lightning stops. Maul’s lightsaber has disappeared into the rubble as he moans in agony, body twitching. Through the wings of shadow, Kenobi - no, the _Parent_ \- appears, his limbs fading between solid reality and a blue-green mist, and he watches Maul with an unreadable expression in his eyes. “Anakin,” the Parent admonishes gently.

There is much being left unsaid that Savage cannot decipher, yet the Fanged God falters, and he bows his head in submission. His wings of shadow collapse into his back and he deactivates his lightsaber, taking a step backwards. “He’s yours, Master.”

For the Fanged God to submit to the Parent so easily… he must be powerful indeed.

Savage senses it before he can act - the last-ditch effort of a cornered beast, desperate with rage and pain. Maul’s lightsaber flies to his hands and ignites, slashing upwards to take off half of the Parent’s torso, and before Savage can shout in warning, the Parent catches the lightsaber blade in his hand. 

The Fanged God is livid. “You dare-!”

“Enough.” The Parent’s voice is quiet but firm, and the Fanged God snaps his jaw shut. “I will mend this old wound.” He flicks his hand, sending Maul’s lightsaber clattering far beyond his reach.

In the face of death, Maul is defiant still. He laughs, dark and without mirth. “So I was wrong, Kenobi.”

The Parent freezes, staring at Maul with an expressionless face. 

“I believed you to be too much of a Jedi to resort to the Dark Side, to dabble in the power of Dathomir.” He glares upwards and spits at the Parent’s feet. “Yet here you are, with an apprentice who is stronger and Darker than I, both of you having gone far beyond what your precious Order would permit.” He bares his teeth. “I wonder what your dear master, Qui-Gon Jinn, would think of your actions?”

Even the Fanged God flinches at his words, and the Parent’s face darkens. “I will never know, shall I? Because of you.” The Force hums, swirling around Maul, and the Parent raises his hand. “Sleep.” 

And to Savage’s astonishment, his brother’s eyes roll into his head, and he falls forward into unconsciousness.

The Parent’s eyes are as cold as the tundras of Hoth. “He will face justice on Coruscant.” 

“Finally,” agrees the Fanged God. 

Then they turn their eyes on Savage, and he freezes. 

“How should we deal with this one?” asks the Fanged God. 

In response, the Parents strides over, and Savage falls to his knees. “Have mercy, my lords. Please.”

Something clouds his vision - a mist of blue-green - and he surrenders. There is nothing more he can do now. 

Then it fades, and he looks up to see the Parent staring at him with a different expression on his face. “The decision to join the Dark Side wasn’t yours,” he says softly, and a part of Savage aches and he remembers his brother Feral. 

“No,” he says, and leaves it at that.

He can sense the Force dancing around him. The Parent’s presence flickers, wavering between becoming One with the Force and between coalescing into an unyielding blue-green. “Then your sentence is this, Savage Opress,” he declares. “You have blood on your hands, yet those hands were never truly yours. For this, you will be stripped of the power given to you by the Nightsisters. Afterwards, you will return to your home, and you will terrorise the galaxy no longer.” 

The Force swells, and Savage has only a moment to feel fear before the Parent reaches out and taps his forehead with a finger.

The world becomes pain.

Compared to the ritual the sisters had used to augment his body - compared to the lightning Dooku had unleashed upon him - the agony he feels is tenfold anything he has felt before. Someone is screaming - he thinks it might be him - and the sensation of something being ripped out of his very being explodes throughout his body. His limbs are burning, his bones wrenching and his muscles tearing at themselves, and his heart is pounding loudly in his chest, screaming as if it is racing to beat before it stops permanently- 

And the pain stops. Savage falls to the ground, shivering in a body that now feels far too small, and when he reaches for the Force, he finds nothing but a memory of the power it had used to grant him. 

When he looks up again, the Parent and the Fanged God have vanished into mist and shadow, and he slowly rises to unsteady feet to find his way home. 

Alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (er... spoilers for TCW season 5? But it's been years man)
> 
> Does anybody ever just... feel bad for Savage? He just wanted to vibe in his village with his brother, but then he got ripped from his home and brainwashed into becoming a slave for Ventress, then abused by Dooku, and then when he did find freedom he was manipulated into following his brother who still abused him, and then he was killed at the hands of Darth Sidious and spent his last moments calling himself unworthy. 
> 
> Is it OOC for Savage to freeze? Hm. He most definitely didn't freeze when facing Darth Sidious, but I would argue that if you've been raised on stories of powerful gods in a village where magicks are a known thing and you encounter one of those gods, you'd freeze too, warrior or not. In Legends, the Winged Goddess/Daughter is the one who grants the sisters with the powers of ichor/magicks while the Fanged God/Son is the one who governs the hunt and grants sisters the ability to use a tracking spell known as the Blood Trail. See the Book of Sith for more details.
> 
> They never actually mention the Father in that book, hence a new headcanon from me.
> 
> And finally - yes, I most definitely draw inspiration from ATLA. It's an amazing show.
> 
> Up next: there's still other comics/books/tv shows (hint hint) with characters I haven't visted in the "now". Plus, more Ahsoka.


	9. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School has returned for me, so the updates will usually appear around Friday, but I've managed to chug it out a few hours early :)
> 
> A bit less action-packed, but still important to the story, I promise.
> 
> Thank you all for the comments, by the way - it's what keeps me going when I hit writer's block ^_^

**Then.**

The trip back to Coruscant is something that Anakin didn’t think he would find uncomfortable, which, in hindsight, was a stupid thing to assume.

After Maul is properly locked away at the back of the ship, Anakin heads to the cockpit to find Obi-Wan deep in thought. 

He’s not sure what to think. On the  _ Resolute II,  _ his former master had seen and subdued him while he was in his true form, and while Anakin had explained what had happened with Krell, he’s unsure what Obi-Wan really thinks of the situation with Maul.

It’s one thing to listen to a story, and another to live it. 

“I’ve contacted the Council.” Obi-Wan’s voice draws Anakin out of his thoughts, sounding carefully controlled. “They’re aware that Maul is in custody and that Opress has been neutralized.” 

“Oh?” Anakin raises an eyebrow. “And what about the details?”

“As far as they’re concerned, I was fortunate enough to catch them unawares, and I dealt with Opress quickly before facing Maul,” says Obi-Wan. He cracks a smile. “Unfortunately, you won’t be getting any of the credit.” 

Anakin rolls his eyes, but gives him a smirk in return. “Don’t worry about me, Master. I’m just glad you survived.”

There’s no verbal response to that, not really. Instead, Obi-Wan replies with an exasperated poke at his mental shields, but his smile fades quickly. For a moment, Anakin stiffens, sure that Obi-Wan is about to say something about what happened, about the Darkness, but what he says instead throws Anakin off completely. “Ahsoka was at the call with the Council, too.”

Anakin’s eyebrows draw together in confusion. “Is she alright? Why is she with the Council?”

“Oh, I’m not sure,” Obi-Wan says airily, but his hands say something different, alongside the sense of urgency that flows through their bond. 

_ CHIPS - DECRYPT - DONE.  _

The chips. He’d completely forgotten about them in light of combat with Maul. Anakin’s eyes widen, an irrational part of him suddenly angry that he isn’t there for the decryption, that he isn’t there for his men, but a large part of it is filled with relief that the chips are decrypted and pride in Ahsoka. 

Anakin raises his hands, signing back,  _ ARE-YOU-SURE.  _

“Yes. He didn’t elaborate.” Obi-Wan shrugs. “In any case, we’ll be back by the end of the day, and we’ll know by then.”

They lapse back into silence, the weight of the situation thick enough to nearly be felt. Anakin wavers, torn between pretending everything is okay and between addressing the problem before he gives in to his impulsive side and blurts out, “Can we talk? About what happened?”

Obi-Wan turns back, his face perfectly arranged into a calm mask. “What is there to talk about?”

“I don’t- I don’t understand. I thought you would be - I don’t know, disappointed in me!” Obi-Wan is still so infuriatingly stoic, and Anakin just needs a reaction - anything, bad or good, just so he knows  _ something! _ \- and he raises his left hand, allowing crimson lightning to spark between his fingers. “You saw me. You felt me. Don’t deny it, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan’s face twists, repressed emotions warring through their bond, and Anakin shrinks into himself, regretting his outburst. He’s going to face rejection, he’s sure of it.

But instead, Obi-Wan’s face softens, blue-green eyes locking onto Anakin’s. “I did. I saw you, and you were Dark.”

Anakin flinches.

“But as I said above Umbara -  _ you aren’t evil,  _ Anakin,” continues Obi-Wan, and he reaches forward, squeezing Anakin on the shoulder. “It takes strength to resist the Fall, and you have held on. I fear the Council will not be understanding if we reveal the truth, but I am not just a Council member.”

_ Brother. Brother. Brother. _

The word hangs in the air, pulsing between their bond, and Anakin slumps, projecting his relief and gratefulness. “I’m glad.” But there’s something else. “Yet I still sense doubt from you.”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows pull together and his gaze drops as he pulls back to cross his arms. “I’ve lived by the Jedi Code for all my life.”

It doesn’t miss Anakin’s notice. “You say  _ lived. _ Not live.”

“Yes.” Blue-green eyes stare back into Anakin’s, and he’s struck suddenly by the realization that they used to be blue-grey, that it had changed after Mortis, and that nobody else had noticed enough to comment on it. “I believe the Father left me with more than just these gifts.”

“More than just gifts?” Anakin echoes.

“I-” Breaking off in frustration, Obi-Wan huffs, then tries again. “What I did. To Opress. To Maul. To remove the Force from a sentient being, and to overpower a strong mind - Anakin, what I’ve done isn’t  _ Light. _ ”

Anakin’s breath hitches. “But it isn’t Dark either!” he snaps. For Obi-Wan to be Dark - it’s something unfathomable, something as unlikely as seeing Master Windu break out in a dress and tap-dance. He reaches out through their bond, desperate and seeking, trying to  _ prove _ what he knows. “I would know. What you-”

And he stops, because what he finds amongst the blue-green of Obi-Wan’s Force presence is not Light, nor Dark. Before, it had always been a beacon, shining with a strong foundation that wavered and shook but never failed in its Light. 

But what he sees now is not the shining Light. It is instead a towering Grey presence, firm and unyielding, and certain in its stance. 

_ Balance. _

“Since I was a youngling, I was taught by the Jedi that Balance was to be the absence of Darkness, and the prevalence of Light,” says Obi-Wan softly. He stares at his hands, fading in-between solidity and mist, and Anakin realizes with a start that he’s never noticed how the mist seemed to just… become one with the Force. Not Dark, nor Light. Just the Force. “But what I’ve come to realize - as we fought Maul - is that when there is too much Light, it becomes blinding.”

“There is no Light without the Dark,” murmurs Anakin. Part of him is reeling, because this is  _ Obi-Wan _ , the perfect Jedi, who did everything in accordance with the Council and the Code. For him to accept anything less than pure Light seems like anathema. 

“Yes.” Obi-Wan’s hand moves to stroke his beard. “And I doubt myself… because I’m beginning to believe that perhaps the Jedi are wrong.”

Anakin tries very hard, then, not to stare, but he fails spectacularly. To hear Obi-Wan, of all people, voice his doubts about the Jedi Code, is something he never considered to be a possibility. “You’re doubting the Jedi Code?” he demands, incredulous. “But- but you’re  _ Obi-Wan! _ ”

Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow, amusement on his features. “Observant as always, Anakin.”

Anakin sputters. “Hey!”

“But just as there is a part of the Son that has been left inside you,” Obi-Wan continues unflinchingly, “there seems to be a part of the Father within me as well. Do you remember what his Force presence felt like?”

Anakin did. “It was calm. Grey. Balanced.” He takes a breath, blows it out. “Like you.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t deny it. Instead, he offers Anakin another half-smile. “And if the Dark Side has a home in balance, why would I push you away if you are Dark?”

Anakin’s stomach plunges again, and he remembers, suddenly, the screams of the Tusken children, and the dark elation that has filled his blood as he drank in their fear. “But it’s different,” he protests. “Balance against Darkness. Only the Sith call on Force Lightning, yet it’s something I- I can use.” He raises his flesh hand again, staring at the crimson lightning sparkling across his fingers, and clenches it into a fist. “How could I be a Jedi if what I’ve turned into is the very thing they’ve sworn to destroy?” 

“Perhaps the Jedi are wrong,” Obi-Wan says again, and Anakin thinks about how this is a very strange day indeed. “If balance is to be both Light and Dark… perhaps it is the Force’s will for you to destroy the Sith, and to become the Dark that balances the Light of the Jedi.”

Anakin snorts. As if that’s any comfort. “I don’t think the Council will take kindly to the ‘Chosen One’ becoming the Dark that rivals the Light of thousands of Jedi.”

It’s strange, addressing himself as such. He’d long believed that it was a myth, despite a part of him thinking that perhaps it was true. Even as a padawan, his raw power had been beyond that of most other padawans.

But then they had landed on Mortis, and the Father - the personification of Balance in the Force - had called him the Chosen One. 

“I’ve never seen the prophecy in full,” admits Obi-Wan. “But as far as I’m aware, the Chosen One is said to destroy the Sith. And given how the Order believes that the Sith represent the Dark Side…”

“They think it means the destruction of all that is Dark,” Anakin finishes. “But the Nightsisters use the Dark Side, and we’ve left them alone.”

“Indeed. They keep to themselves, and protect their own.” He frowns, then stands. “Which reminds me… what are we to do with Maul?”

“Maul? What-”

Oh _. _

A bucket of ice water runs down Anakin’s spine. “He saw us.”

“We cannot allow him to reveal what he saw to the Council,” says Obi-Wan. He moves past Anakin, making for the brig, and Anakin follows.

“What are we going to do? Kill him?” Perhaps there is no other way. 

“No.” The sounds of Obi-Wan’s feet tapping against the metal of the floor begins to fade, his boots and legs dissolving into mist, and he turns to Anakin with a startling blue-green glow in his eyes. “On Mortis, the Father removed your memory.”

He remembers. Or, rather, he remembers what happened afterwards - waking up to the Father, staring at him in concern, with a large blank spot in his mind where he’s sure something was supposed to be. But the Father had done too good a job. Whatever it was, it had never reappeared, be it in subconscious inklings or in dreams. “So you want to do the same to Maul.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t respond. They reach the brig, where Maul is tied securely, unconscious. 

He looks… peaceful. It isn’t an expression that Anakin would have ever associated with the Sith, but with Maul asleep, Anakin is struck by how  _ young  _ he is - somewhere a little younger than Obi-Wan’s age. He wonders, suddenly, if Maul was raised in the Dark Side, and whether or not he was ever given a chance to even experience the Light. 

Beside Anakin, the Force swells, dancing in delight as it moves around Maul. Obi-Wan reaches out, his presence fading in and out between solidity and becoming One with the Force.

“If there is to be Balance,” Obi-Wan murmurs, and his voice echoes with the voice of the Father, “what you have seen, Darth Maul, must be forgotten.”

Then he taps Maul on the forehead, and the Force  _ sings. _ Something shifts - a movement in Force, from Maul’s presence - and it disappears. Anakin doesn’t see it as much as he  _ feels _ it. 

(It never crosses his mind to be afraid of Obi-Wan’s power.

After all, it’s  _ Obi-Wan.  _

His brother. 

When the Force hears his thoughts, it cackles in delight, and agrees.)

\--

When Kix awakens, he swears there’s a seraphim standing over his bed. 

Well, he thinks it’s a seraphim. That’s what it has to be, anyways, because it looks like those pictures he studied during classes on history and culture on Kamino. The part of his mind that isn’t frozen stares at the blinding figure of white-gold, wings of a convor spreading to cover all corners of the room, with piercing eyes of jade. “Kix,” says the seraphim, and her voice echoes with something  _ else _ , “how do you feel?”

He stares and stares and stares, looking at the white-gold light that has a thousand eyes, then he blinks, and the seraphim is gone. 

What he does see is his Commander, Echo, and General Windu, watching him in concern. Damn sleep meds - they probably made him hallucinate. “I’m alright,” he mutters. There’s a dull ache at the side of his head. “What happened?”

Echo glances at the Jedi, both of who give him a nod in approval. “The chip you found in me, Kix. It was in you, too.” Echo swallows hard, eyes drawn to where Kix is sure there’s a bandage over where his head is throbbing lightly. “It’s in all of us.”

Kix is a medic. What’s more, he’s a medic that specializes in wounds earned from war, from missions. He knows what the chips mean, just as he knows what it means that there’s no entry scar. “The Kaminoans?” he asks, voice hollow.

“We have reason to believe this is widespread across the GAR,” General Windu says. “We also believe that even the highest levels of government may be compromised. This cannot go on record or be spoken through communications.” 

“Luckily, I don’t think the removal of the chips will trigger anything,” Commander Tano says. “But we need to get it out of all of our men as soon as possible.”

“Definitely, Commander.” He feels sick. The idea of his brothers - of every single one of his brothers - were created with a slave chip in their heads makes him want to hurl. “I can start now. We’ll need med droids to help get through the entire battalion.”

The look his Commander shoots him is doubtful, worried for his health, but she agrees reluctantly. “They’ll need to be wiped when they’re done.” She grasps his arm. “Are you sure you’re alright, Kix?”

He takes a breath, and stares her in the eye. “With all due respect, Commander, even if you order me to rest, I won’t do it until I’m sure all my brothers are free.”

Her mouth sets into a grim line, and she jerks her head. “I understand. We’ll get to work immediately.”

\--

Moments later, as Kix sets to work, calling up a dozen clones at a time, Master Windu speaks to her outside the medbay.

“I’ll report this to the Council,” he tells her. Underneath the stern mask, she can sense the great concern he holds for his men, and for the rest of the clones. “I thank you again for bringing this to our attention, Padawan Tano. You may have just saved thousands of lives today.”

She’s a Jedi Padawan. She hides her pleasure, as a Jedi does not gloat, but to be commended by the second-in-command by all the Jedi is not insignificant. “Thank you, Master Windu. But it wasn’t all me. Master Skywalker helped me with the investigation, as did Master Kenobi before he left.” 

He nods, and for a moment, she’s afraid that he will ask her where Anakin is. 

_ Kriff, kriff, kriff.  _

But what he says instead surprises her. “Regardless, you came on your own before consulting them both, did you not? And your advice was sound.”

Her mouth  _ doesn’t _ drop open in surprise - of course not, she has better self-control than that - but she’s stunned, nonetheless. Master Windu is not the type to give out any praise lightly. “I- I did.”

“And thanks to your quick actions, and the help of your masters, we may be able to safely take the chips out of the hundreds of battalions under the command of the Order that are stationed on Coruscant.” He closes his eyes briefly, and she senses him reaching out into the Force. “I do not sense immediate danger from the chips. We may have several months yet to de-chip the battalions that are away on missions in the Outer Rim. As you suggested, we’ll send messengers to deliver the reports in-person.”

A thought strikes her, then. “But what about the Coruscant guard? They aren’t under the Jedi.”

He opens his eyes, his lips pressed in a tight line. “We won’t be able to get to them without arousing suspicion from the Senate. We’ll have to fortify the temple and prepare for a potential attack.”

Imagining that makes her sick. The idea of clones, unable to control their actions and being used as mindless slaves, shooting down helpless younglings and sacking the Jedi Temple, is abhorrent. The fact that it is even a possibility makes her want to hurl. 

She doesn’t. Instead, she tells Master Windu, “Perhaps by then, we’ll have taken down the Sith behind this war.”

“Let us hope.” Before he can say anything else, his comm chimes, and he raises his arm. “Windu.”

“Master Kenobi is returning to Coruscant, Master Windu.” Ahsoka doesn’t recognize the voice on the other end - another Knight, perhaps? “He has Darth Maul in custody.”

“I understand. Thank you,” he says in a clipped voice. He turns off the comm, turning to Ahsoka. “I will take my leave then, Padawan Tano.”

She bows, her mind racing. Her masters are returning with the Sith that killed her great-grandmaster in custody. But for now…

For now, she must focus on her men. On Rex, on Fives, on the others who have a chip in their heads. 

She smiles, and waves farewell. “May the Force be with you, Master Windu.”

\--

When she finds her way back to her quarters at the Temple, not too long after she made sure most of the 501st had their chips removed, Anakin is there, sitting as if he had never left. 

“Hey, Snips,” he says, a half-smile tugging up the corner of his lips, his presence a smug red-black.

“Master!” She runs forward, tackling him in a hug, because he has  _ no idea _ how scared she was when she sensed the overwhelming Darkness through their bond. Anakin is laughing, a startled surprise colouring the Force around him, and she draws back and punches him in the arm. “Don’t  _ scare _ me like that again!”

He gives her a sharp grin, his mouth wavering between something human and something a little too wide, but he sobers up when he sees the dark circles under her eyes. It had been a stressful day. “Are you alright? I heard that you decrypted the chips.”

“I am.” She reaches out with the Force, pulling the datapad to her hand from the table where she left it, and she notes dimly how Anakin doesn’t chastise her for an inappropriate use of the Force. “I reported it to the Council. We’ve started the de-chipping process - I think you’ll be pleased to know that most of our men have had the chips removed by now.”

“Good,” he says vehemently, then stops. “Wait. You told the Council?”

She hesitates, but stands firm in her decision. “Yes. I listened to what the Force told me, and reported it to the Council.” Under her hands, the datapad feels warm, the report she had spent hours pouring over running through her mind. “They’re in the process of de-chipping their own men. By the end of the week, all GAR troopers who are under the command of Jedi close enough to be reached in-person should be free.”

He searches her face and she stares back unflinchingly, certain that the actions she had taken were necessary, and he finally acquiesces with a nod. “I’m proud of you, young padawan. You listened to the Force, and let it guide you.” His hand reaches out, tugging on her silka beads, and he gives her a wry smile. “I don’t know how much longer you’ll need this.” 

Her stomach leaps, surprise blossoming from her presence in the Force. 

Her, a Knight, so soon? At sixteen?

At her shock, he laughs, bright and carefree, the same laugh of the  _ Ase  _ Knight she had seen in her dreams, and she remembers with a sudden jolt the Darkness she had felt across their bond not so long ago, as well as the voice of the  _ Ase _ Queen.

_ Daughter,  _ she had called Ahsoka.

_ Son,  _ she hadn’t said to the Knight, but Ahsoka heard it nonetheless, saw it in the way the  _ Ase  _ Queen looked at her Knight. 

( _ My Son,  _ the Father had said, as he had stared at the living incarnation of the Dark Side with the terrifyingly powerful love of family.)

“You’re getting there, but you’ve still got some ways to go, Snips,” Anakin says, but he senses her unease and his smile fades. “What is it?”

“When you were fighting Maul,” she says, watching his face carefully, “I sensed a Darkness coming through our bond.” She swallows, then amends, “From our bond, and from my bond with Master Kenobi.” 

Anakin stiffens, his face stony, and for a moment, she’s afraid that he’s going to turn away or deny it. Instead, he sighs, his weariness leaking through the Force. “Not here. I’ll explain when we’re away from Coruscant.”

“You’re worried the Jedi in the Temple will sense it.” It’s not worded as a question, and Anakin responds in kind. 

“I know they will.” He laughs again, short and dark, and she notices that his feet are half-solid, fading in and out of reality and into the shadows. In the Force, he feels normal - a rugged, bright presence, powerful but a little unrefined - but through her bond, she can sense a hint of Darkness, cold and alluring and unforgiving. “You know what Obi-Wan said? He told me that I felt Darker than Maul and Opress. It’s too dangerous for us to talk here.”

Alongside the Darkness comes fear. Anakin is still scared, she realizes, he’s terrified that he’ll lose control and become like Dooku or worse. “I understand, Master,” she tells him, and through their bond, she draws on the memory of the Light of the Daughter and sends it through. 

_ I trust you. You’re strong. You can do this.  _

Through their bond, a weary gratefulness comes through, but Anakin redirects the topic back to the chips. “Have you figured out a way to deactivate the chips if they can’t be removed?”

“No.” Ahsoka grits her teeth and opens the report, moving to sit beside him on the couch to give him a better look. “Let me give you a rundown of what we have figured out.”

\--

When Anakin appears at the  _ 500 Republica _ in the evening, Padmé, non-Force-Sensitive as she is, can sense the tension lining his shoulders and the stiffness in his posture. 

“Padmé,” he says, “Padmé.”

She runs forward, pulling him into an embrace out of view of the veranda and the windows. “Ani,” she whispers, “what’s wrong?”

He looks tired. She can see the dark circles under his eyes and the weariness in the lines of his face. The last time she saw him, it had been long ago, before the horrible mission at Umbara. Since then, she assumed he had been taking the time to work with his men, to try to rebuild the damaged trust between Jedi General and trooper and to try to heal the wounds they had been deceived into inflicting on themselves. 

She hates war. She’d prefer negotiations and diplomacy to the brutal horror of battle. But after reading the report, she thinks she would’ve made an exception in the case of Pong Krell.

Bastard.

Anakin buries his head in her hair, nuzzling her, and she holds him because it’s been too long - she had missed him. His lips brush against her ear, and he whispers, “The closet.” 

She’s a politician. She’s well-trained in concealing her reactions down to the subtlest flinch. She murmurs back, “Alright,” and she pulls him into the closet she uses for extra secure communications. 

The moment the door is closed and the scrambler is in her hand, Anakin fixes her with a stare, urgency in his piercing blue eyes. “We found chips in our mens’ heads,” he says, and she can’t help it - she sucks in a gasp. “It’s in all of them, Padmé. All of the GAR. There were no entry scars, which means that the Kaminoans were responsible.”

Oh, gods of Naboo. 

Padmé’s hand moves unconsciously to where she knows the removal scar for Anakin’s chip is on his stomach, and he grabs her hand, holding it like a lifeline. “Oh, Ani,” she whispers, guilt surging through her in waves. An army of slaves! And she had never even thought to check. “I- What are we going to do?”

A faint smirk tugs at the corners of his lips. “Ahsoka decrypted part of the chips and made a removal plan,” he says, a quiet pride in his voice. “The Council has begun the process of removing it from their men and informing all Jedi they can reach in person.” 

She thinks of the hot-headed padawan and smiles in turn. In another life, perhaps, where Jedi were not forbidden attachments, she would have thought of the young togruta as her daughter. “In person?”

The smirk turns into a grimace, and he jerks his head. “We have… reason to believe that the highest levels of government could be compromised. Including anybody with access to comm transcripts.” 

Her blood runs cold. She knows that the Senate is corrupt - she works and lives in its heart, where she faces those who are there to line their own pockets rather than to help their own people - but to know that the corruption runs deep enough to allow for the approval for an army of slaves makes her burn. “And what about the clones who aren’t under the Jedi?”

“We don’t know.” He reaches into his belt and holds up a datachip. “I won’t have the time to run further decryptions. We’re probably going to be called on another mission soon.” 

She takes the chip, already running through plans in her head. “I understand. Is there anything else I should know?”

“Yes.” He takes a breath and his hand tightens around hers. “There’s an order in there. Number sixty-six. It orders the removal of all Jedi by lethal force.”

All at once, it feels as though her breath leaves her. 

_ Genocide.  _

Her hand tightens in turn, and she glares back, a fire igniting within her chest. Naboo had once been the victim of senseless torture and slaughter from the Trade Federation - for there to be such a plot, designed to eradicate an entire culture, makes her burn with fury. “We’ll find a way,” she snarls, and she knows he understands. He knows she will bring her Handmaidens into this, and together, they will be a force to be reckoned with. 

He stares at her, admiration and passion and trust in his eyes, and he finally gives her a true smile, one not worn down by worry or stress. “I know you will.” 

\--

**Now.**

There is little the Handmaidens of Padmé Amidala cannot do when they set their minds to it. 

It irks Sabé very, very much to leave her Lady in the hands of people who are  _ not  _ the Handmaidens, but when the broadcast of Palpatine’s betrayal had gone out, Padmé’s instructions had been clear. 

“Go,” she had snapped. “I need you to find a way to disrupt the signal to the chips. I can only trust you all to do this.”

“But milady-!” Eirtaé had protested.

“There’s no time!” Padmé’s voice had been hoarse with worry, and she had dragged them to the hidden closet, where the armor they used for stealth missions was stored. “This way, you can protect me - and the rest of Coruscant - more surely than if you stayed here to be picked off, one by one. Get to central communications and find a way to stop the Orders.”

Outside, multicoloured flashes began to erupt as the Coruscant guard began to fire on transports in the air, the sound of explosions rumbling through the previously calm afternoon. 

“I’ll have Anakin’s men with me,” Padmé assured, and the men of the 501st nodded. 

“We got it from here, ma’am,” said a clone reassuringly - Jesse, Sabé thought - and she fixed him with a stare. 

“Good.” 

She had left the building with the rest of the handmaidens in a speeder, fully expecting to be shot at, and armed to the teeth. A glancing blow to the speeder’s engines left them in a controlled fall, smoke trailing behind them as Rabé fought the controls. 

“We’ll have to jump,” Rabé shouted over the noise. There was so much smoke - Sabé’s eyes were stinging, her ears nearly deafened over the keening of the speeder and the explosions of the other falling transports in the distance. 

“As planned, then,” Sabé muttered, and her hand shot up, making a hand sign indecipherable to all but the Handmaidens. To anyone else, it would have seemed like the desperate flailings of a dying woman, but the others understood it well.

_ PLAN - A - PROCEED.  _

Rabé had set the controls expertly, and at the last moment, the Handmaidens had shot their ascension cables out, jumping from the speeder and through the window of an abandoned building as the vehicle crashed spectacularly.

“I think that worked,” Yané had said breathlessly, and Saché had laughed, brushing back a strand of hair that had come loose.

That was two hours ago. 

They had crashed ten blocks from the Central Communications building - not too far, perhaps a half-hour walk on a normal day - but with Coruscant swarming with chipped clones and the CenComms protected by a thick perimeter of guards, it had proven difficult to break into the building. They had scouted the perimeter, taken down a number of guards, hidden in abandoned buildings and transports as the brainwashed troopers ran past their location. 

But perhaps, now, they will be able to find their way through the perimeter.

There’s a weakness. An entry point. A gate, with a weakness in its links, guarded only by ten troopers in sight. Odds of two-to-one, if they can keep the battle in this area contained. 

If they pull off their plan well, it should work.

Sabé and Eirtaé go first, stumbling into the open, empty-handed with terror on their faces. “Help, please!” cries Sabé, playing the part of a terrified victim. “There’s a Jedi after us!”

Hidden behind a building, a carefully executed slice of a vibroblade on Rabé’s part creates a hum and snaps a cable, sending a pile of crates suspended over a transport crashing to the ground. “Bastard!” yells Saché, then fakes a scream as the vibroblade hums again and slices through one of the crates. 

“Stand back!” one of the troopers shouts to Sabé and Eirtaé, and the ten of them converge on Saché’s location, moving to protect the unarmed women. 

They aren’t unarmed, of course. Besides the wrist-blasters mounted on both arms, there is a garotte wire tying up their hair along with two knives acting as decorative pins, as well as a blaster pistol and deactivator hidden underneath their cloaks. Strapped to their thighs are twin vibroblades, and hidden in the soles of their boots are blades coated in a fast-acting sedative. 

The plan goes perfectly. With Yané coding and running a scrambler specific to this block, no backup arrives, and the troopers run straight into a hidden valley between two buildings where Saché and Rabé lay in wait. Sabé and Eirtaé come up behind them, and within twenty seconds and ten precisely-executed wrist-blaster shots, the ambush is over. 

“Let’s go,” snaps Sabé, and they make their way to the gate, climbing it swiftly and running for the building. They reach it unhindered and Eirtaé grabs a tool from her belt, quickly cutting an entry point through the vents. 

They’d studied the layout of CenComms and hacked into a map of the inner workings of the building, months before, when General Skywalker had come to Padmé and asked for help regarding the conspiracy to enslave the clones. She had turned to her Handmaidens for help, and together, they had gotten access (well… sliced their way in) to the maps that they have imprinted into their brains now. 

The one thing that Sabé regrets, though, is that they couldn’t find a cancellation safety code built within the chips. They’d searched for months, poured over the code and run decryption after decryption, but they hadn’t found anything. 

But there’s no time for regret. There’s no time for anything but focusing on the mission, now.

So that’s what they do. The metal of the vents are cold and unforgiving on Sabé’s knees and hands, with the occasional metal bit sticking out and catching on the threads of her cloak. The Handmaidens move as one, their breaths coming in quiet and controlled sighs, the quiet tapping of their hands and feet nearly indistinguishable over the sound of the air conditioning. Sabé feels the weight of the knives in her hair, the vibroblades on her legs, and the blasters at her hip, and she draws comfort from the presence of her weapons and of her companions. 

She wonders how Padmé is doing, and for a moment, her heart feels like it is caught in an icy grip as she imagines the worst - her Lady, eyes glassy with death - but she pushes the thought away. 

The mission comes first. She can do a better job here overriding the chips and saving Coruscant than she can at Padmé’s side, where she would be slowly worn down until dead. 

Sixteen minutes of crawling later, her back is aching and her knees are sore, but Sabé knows better than to complain and to potentially draw unwanted attention. Ahead of her, she looks downwards into the central control room of CenComms. It’s too tight to use hand signals in the vents - instead, she reaches for the comm on her wrists and taps in a pattern, creating a silent series of vibrations that will be felt by the other’s comms.

_ 8-UNARM-6-ARM-PLAN-F. _

She feels the responses - four  _ YES _ es - and the air behind her shifts as the others move to take their places to surround the room. Not two minutes later, four more vibrations confirming their location comes through the comm, and Sabé starts the countdown. 

_ THREE. _

She grasps the vent cover, trusting that the others are doing the same.

_ TWO.  _

They’re a single unit. They move as one. She knows they will follow the plan down to the millisecond. 

_ ONE.  _

As one, they pull open the vent cover and drop it with precision, taking down five of the guards, and the Handmaidens snap out their cables to the ceiling and leap downwards in a controlled fall. Nine stun bolts from their wrist-blasters later, it is over, and they land in the room with little resistance. 

“Secure them,” Sabé says curtly, and the unconscious CenComms staff are disarmed and cuffed with their own stun cuffs. Three quick taps later, Rabé locks the doors to CenComms, and after another few taps, every blast door in the building closes. 

“We don’t have much time,” Yané snaps, her hands already flying over the controls. “I’ve added cameras to the vents to watch all entry points - Eirtaé, plug this in and keep watch over the cameras.”

Eirtaé takes the datachip, plugging it in to reveal six extra camera screens from the places where Yané hid cameras in the vents. “Vents clear,” she says, scanning the screen. “Most of the personnel are trapped, but I’ll give us an estimate of seven to nine minutes before we encounter significant resistance.”

“Understood,” the Handmaidens chorus, and they set to work. 

There is nothing, now, but the sound of tapping and quiet curses under one’s breath. The seat feels cold under Sabé, the cushions offering little comfort to her turbulent stomach. The entire room is bathed in the blue of the screens, lines and lines of code and aurebesh blurring into an indecipherable clump in front of her eyes. There’s a dull headache behind her eyes and her knees are raw from crawling through the vents for so long, but there’s no time for rest.

“Ray shields going up,” says Eirtaé, and through the monitor, Sabé sees a security team stop as the ray shields spring up, preventing them from advancing. 

They continue like this, with Eirtaé watching the security cams and the rest of them slicing into the CenComms mainframe, and with each passing minute, Sabé feels the uneasiness in her stomach begin to grow. Her fingers feel stiff and weak, tapping constantly at the controls, but she can’t falter. There’s no time to rest. There’s no time-

“I got it!” Shouts Yané, and the rest of them converge on her in a second, staring at her monitor. “There, in this line. There’s a small signal, nearly indecipherable, hidden within general communications and holonet lines. It’s designed to look like regular code, but it matches the code in the inhibitor chip perfectly.”

“Is there a way to isolate it?” Rabé asks. Sabé hardly dares to hope. If they’ve gotten it… if they can end it now-

Yané twists her face. “No. I can’t shut it down on its own - it’s designed to take down all planetary communications if it’s disrupted.”

They lapse into silence, Sabé’s mind running at too many miles an hour. If they shut down communications, there would be no way to know if they would be successful. “Is there no other way?” she asks.

Yané’s eyes are tight with stress, her mouth a thin line, but she jerks her head once. “There isn’t.”

Before the rest of them can continue, Eirtaé says loudly, “We have two minutes. There’s a squad cutting their way through the blast doors.”

No time. No time no time no time. The thought runs on loop through Sabé’s head, making her feel stiff with terror, and she decides to take the leap. “Take down all communications.”

“We won’t know if we’re successful,” Saché objects. “It could hamper rescue efforts, too.” 

“It’s our only chance.” Sabé digs her nails into her arms, relishing in the sharp pain as they bite into skin. It grounds her, breaking through the fog of weariness in her mind. “If we don’t take the chance, our Lady will die, and so will all the Jedi and many other civilians and clones who don’t know what’s happening.” 

For a beat, there’s silence, then Eirtaé nods in agreement, then Yané, then Rabé, and finally, Saché. “Understood,” Yané says in a clipped tone, and then her fingers are flying again, the screen blurring as she slices into the system to shut down all communications. 

Sabé holds her breath. Every second that passes means a second closer to success - or failure. They are on the precipice, now, and the slightest misstep could mean the difference between life or death for thousands. 

“One minute.” Eirtaé’s voice rings through the room, and Sabé thinks she can hear the distant thud of feet and the sharp whirring of something cutting through blast doors. Yané’s fingers are tapping, a constant clicking in the room.

Then she stops, her hand over a button.

“Ready?” she asks. 

No. Absolutely not. There is so much that could go wrong, so much that can-

She braces herself, and nods.

“Yes,” Sabé says softly, and the rest of the Handmaidens voice their agreement.

“Forty seconds,” Eirtaé says quietly, and Rabé’s face hardens. 

She presses the button, and there’s a burst of static, making them flinch and cover their ears. 

Then the screens flicker and go dark.

And all that is left

is

silence.

\--

**Then.**

Something wakes him, that night. 

The mattress is so soft and the covers so warm, and Obi-Wan chafes, a little resentful at whatever it is that is disturbing the rest he could be getting, so rare now at the height of the clone war. 

_ Obi-Wan.  _

A presence, warm and familiar, appears at his side, and he swats at it. “Let me be,” he mumbles into his covers. 

The voice at the side of his bed laughs. “You were always the one who woke earlier than I, Obi-Wan.” 

He rolls his eyes, then swats again at the hand, which is tugging at his padawan braid. “Well, now you know how insufferable you were, Master.”

Then he freezes.

The world tilts on its axis, his head spinning, and he snaps his eyes open to see a world surrounded by blue-green mist.

Surrounded, except when he bolts up, there is a spot of blue, bright and familiar and too long-missed. A bond that he thought that had crumbled to dust twelve years ago sparks again, raw with disuse.

“Obi-Wan,” the voice says again, and there is longing now, longing and nostalgia and the love of a father, and Obi-Wan stares and stares and stares into the face of Qui-Gon Jinn. 

“Qui-Gon,” he whispers, and suddenly his covers are gone and he’s flying across the room, running headfirst into the embrace of a man gone too soon. 

He’d seen him, on Mortis, but he thought it was just a hallucination. A vision. The Qui-Gon there hadn’t even spoken to him about himself, only about Anakin. The Qui-Gon there hadn’t really even felt like him, either, just an echo of a memory long-past. The Qui-Gon there had spoken to an Obi-Wan who had not gone through extremely turbulent changes in the span of a week, who still had the shields and discipline of a Jedi Master who detached himself from all attachments. But that Obi-Wan isn’t the one that he is now.

And Qui-Gon feels real. What Obi-Wan senses through the Force feels so, so real. When Qui-Gon’s arms come around him in a hug, they feel real, they feel  _ solid, _ and suddenly Obi-Wan is shaking, his body wracked with sobs, because he’s forgotten how this feels like and it’s been too long and he was never really able to say  _ goodbye _ -

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon says again, and Obi-Wan pulls away, relishing the feeling of being in his younger body again and the feeling of seeing his old master again. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Master,” he says, “master.”  _ Qui-Gon. Qui-Gon. Qui-Gon.  _

And they sit there, basking in the moment, savoring the moment, for the Force has given them a gift of a final conversation. 

A gift twelve years too late, but a welcome gift all the same. 

Qui-Gon reaches out, tugging on Obi-Wan’s braid affectionately again as he calms, and Obi-Wan is reminded of the times where Qui-Gon would go through the ritual of re-braiding it, adding another bead or thread to mark a new event in his journey as a padawan. “I’m worried, Master,” he confesses, and saying the word  _ Master _ again leaves him with a thickness in his throat that he fights to overcome. “For Anakin.” 

Force, he’d forgotten that smile and the way that the corners of Qui-Gon’s eyes would crinkle with amusement. “You’re worried about the implications of the Son’s influence on him,” he says, and Obi-Wan nods. 

“Yes. I’ve taught him the best I can, but balance eludes him.” He lowers his eyes. “I’m worried that it will be harder for him now.”

“That may be, but even so, the Force has spoken.” Qui-Gon’s form shifts, his body fading between transparency and solidity, and Obi-Wan realizes that he is doing the same, his fingertips dissolving into mist and reforming. “He is the Chosen One.”

He remembers. With his dying words, the Father had confirmed the truth of the prophecy. “But how can he be the Chosen One and the embodiment of the Dark Side?” He remembers the Well of the Dark Side, surrounded by fire and brimstone, and he remembers the golden eyes glaring at him with a hatred that had stunned him and cut to his core. 

“The one who  _ brings _ balance does not necessarily have to always  _ be _ balanced,” Qui-Gon says. “You were right in what you told him. It is the Will of the Force for Anakin to destroy the Sith, and to bring Balance.” 

“Just as it is its Will for him to become the Dark that balances out the Light of thousands of Jedi?” He pulls back, hand moving to stroke his beard, and flinching slightly when he finds no beard, for he is in his younger body in this vision. “I- I worry for him. And Ahsoka. They both have such responsibility thrust upon them - to become the embodiment of both sides of the Force-” He sighs, a sudden loss surging up within him. “You would have loved Ahsoka, Master.”

And what bitter irony. Ahsoka would never know her great-grandmaster, but she would live forever with the knowledge of her great-great-grandmaster’s crimes against the galaxy.

Qui-Gon sighs, too, his face falling at the notion of what could have been. “She is strong, Obi-Wan, as is Anakin. But they will both need your guidance. Too much Light or Dark could be the undoing of the universe.” A gentle smile pulls at his eyes again, and he reaches out and squeezes Obi-Wan’s shoulder, making him feel another wave of nostalgia. “You always were too selfless for your own good, padawan. I am sorry that you must bear such responsibility as well. To be the embodiment of Balance is no simple task, and I wish that the burden did not fall on you.” 

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” Obi-Wan confesses quietly, and suddenly he feels twenty-five in his mind again, twenty-five and freshly Knighted and unsure if he could even raise a Padawan. 

“The Force does not choose without care, Obi-Wan.” Even now, with him as a Jedi Master and Council Member, Qui-Gon still manages to make Obi-Wan feel like a young padawan again, and he clings tightly to the moment, longing for just a few moments more with his late master. “And to be chosen as the legacy of the Father, of Balance- you do not give yourself enough credit, my young padawan.”

Obi-Wan laughs, but it comes out sounding more like a strangled gasp, so strong is his pain. “I’m not so young anymore, Master,” he manages.

“You’re still younger than I,” says Qui-Gon with a laugh, and  _ kriff,  _ Obi-Wan feels like he’s being scraped raw by the force of how much he misses the man. “But as I’ve forseen, you’ve become wiser and far more powerful.” 

The idea of him becoming wiser than Qui-Gon seems foreign. Sacrilegious, even. But there is truth in his words in the form of the mission he just returned from. “We were able to capture Maul.” He swallows down the lump in his throat. “He survived, but he will face justice.” 

“He will,” agrees Qui-Gon, and there’s something in his voice that says that he knows more than he’s letting on. He squeezes Obi-Wan’s shoulder again, only this time, his hand becomes mist, and he begins to fade. “I’m proud of you, Obi-Wan. You’ve become a far better Jedi Master than I.” 

With a start, Obi-Wan realizes that his vision is beginning to fade, and part of him rebels. He wants to shout at the unfairness of it all, he wants to reach out with the Force-mist and hold Qui-Gon to his side forever, he wants, he wants,  _ he wants _ -

He does none of those things.

Instead, all he does is search through their bond one last time, and send Qui-Gon the love of a padawan to his master, the love of a son to his father. “I’ve missed you,” he whispers, and his voice cracks. “I will miss you.”

Qui-Gon smiles, his phantom hand ruffling Obi-Wan’s hair, and he projects through the bond a fatherly love so strong and so long-missed that it takes every bit of his Jedi discipline not to collapse his shields and break down at that very moment.

Then Obi-Wan snaps awake in the darkness of his quarters with nothing but an echo of his bond with Qui-Gon.

And for the first time in twelve years, Obi-Wan Kenobi cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started the "Now" section with three different characters from different parts of canon before deciding to settle on the Handmaidens of Naboo.
> 
> Up next: I think I might try to get a short 2000-word chapter out tomorrow, depending on if I have time. If it doesn't appear, I'll update the Friday after.


	10. Interlude: Mythos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the same time Obi-Wan Kenobi spoke with Qui-Gon in his dreams, Anakin Skywalker spoke with someone else. 
> 
> And in the present, the impacts of the culmination of Palpatine's plans are felt far throughout the galaxy - even in the Unknown Regions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short interlude with a deep dive into EU and Canon lore. 
> 
> Like many others, I subscribe to fialleril's Tatooine Slave Culture headcanons. PLEASE check them out if you haven't already - they're AMAZING. 
> 
> Thank you all for the comments!

**Then.**

_Anakin,_ something whispers. _Child._

Something hot stings at his face. Under his body is not the soft cloth of bed but the harsh grit of sand, and his visceral hatred for the substance makes his eyes snap open, and he finds himself in the midst of a vision. 

A vision of a sandstorm. Of the desert. 

_Child of the desert,_ the voice says again with the tones of Shmi Skywalker. _Ekkreth. Son._

It isn’t Shmi. His heart aches as he remembers his mother, and he remembers how she was torn from his arms by the acts of the vile tuskens. The last time he had seen her face and heard her voice, it had been a cruel imitation, a trick by the son. 

This isn’t a trick, this time. This isn’t Shmi Skywalker, but it is his mother. He knows this, not in his heart or his mind, but in his bones.

He looks into the sandstorm, and sees the desert blooming.

“Ar-Amu,” he says, and the desert hums. 

Ar-Amu. Mother of the desert. Mother of Tatooine. Shmi had told him, long ago, that she had heard the voice of Ar-Amu in a sandstorm, and that had been when he was conceived, a gift from a goddess. As a child, he had believed her, then he had grown older and thought that it was a story she had crafted to protect him from the truth. She was a slave woman, and though she was well-respected amongst the slaves of Tatooine, the masters cared not for the thoughts or feelings of the slaves. 

Then Mortis had happened, and though he hadn’t truly thought of the truth of his birth for a while, he doesn’t doubt the existence of Ar-Amu now. Part of him, one belonging to a wide-eyed slave boy from Tatooine, is filled with awe, for this is Ar-Amu, the bringer of life.

 _You carry a great burden within you, my Son,_ Ar-Amu sings. Her voice is everywhere and nowhere, in the grains of sand flying about his face and in the dunes at his feet. 

“I do, Mother,” he whispers, and though his voice is lost in the howl of the sandstorm, he knows she hears it nonetheless. “I fear that I will become what I’ve sworn to destroy.”

 _Depur. The Master._ Long ago, though Depur had had no description in the stories he was told, Anakin had thought of Depur as a Hutt. On the days where Watto was more cruel, he imagined Depur as a Toydarian. 

But then he had stared into the poisonous yellow eyes of Dooku, of Maul, and had imagined the same eyes of their master, and he had since then never truly thought of Depur’s form. There was one thing he was certain of, though - that Depur would have golden eyes, poisonous and distrustful, set in a face that could have been beautiful but that had become twisted with hatred and rage. 

Then he had stared into the mirror of his fresher, and the same eyes of Depur had stared back. 

_Ekkreth,_ Ar-Amu says. _Do you know what your name means?_

“I do, Mother.” Of course he does. He was raised by the Grandmother, the Wisewoman of the slave quarters. “The trickster. The shape-changer. The slave who makes free.”

 _So you understand, my Son._ Ar-Amu begins to move. He doesn’t really _see_ the sandstorm move, really - instead, he senses the shifting in the sands, and he follows, walking with the burning dunes beneath his feet. _Child of the Desert, your road is long and burdensome. Do you remember the stories of when Depur took the moon?_

“I remember.” Ekkreth had taken the shape of one of Depur’s enforcers, had tricked him into believing that he should be trusted, then he had become a bird and flown away. 

_When you unmask Depur, my Son, you will steal the moon._

Anakin is aware - to a degree - that this is a vision, that in reality, he is probably in his bed on Coruscant. But the rolling hills beneath his feet and the grains stinging the skin of his face feels so, so real. “I’m afraid of truly Falling, Mother,” he confesses, and that it rings true puts an ache in his bones. “I could cause so much pain.”

Then the storm lessens, and passes, and he finds himself standing in the remains of a Tusken camp that had haunted his dreams for years. 

He chokes on his works.

“I already have.” 

There are so many bones, here, stripped clean by the sands of the desert and by the wild anooba. Bones of a father, of a mother, bones of young children, echoing with the terror and pain caused by Anakin’s rage. He regrets, but something calls to him in the Son’s voice, a murmur telling him that his hatred was justified, and a part of him still believes it. 

_Passion, left uncontrolled, could mean the destruction wrought by Depur,_ Ar-Amu says, and her voice echoes through the Dunes of Tatooine. _Just as how passion, when controlled, could lend you strength to protect those you seek to help._

His feet move, drawing him to a tent that he recognizes with a sick feeling in his gut. He steps inside, and sees the rack, still spattered with the blood of Shmi Skywalker, and he wants to hurl. 

_Dakkalu, Ekkreth,_ Ar-Amu whispers. Strength now. The sand at Anakin’s feet begins to shift, circling round and round, and forms begin to take shape within the sand. They change, beginning with loth-wolves running in circles, then becoming Tauntauns, then akuls, and change and change and change they do, until they settle on the form of Elder Sister. Of the Krayt Dragon. _The rain was long ago, but we do not forget._

“The desert never forgets,” Anakin murmurs back, and the sands beneath his feet begin to roar. 

_Ekkreth._ Ar-Amu’s voice begins to change, becoming lost in the rising sands. _You have never been alone, and you never shall be. You will be aided by friends, by enemies, by family._

The Force changes, and the storm begins anew, obscuring Anakin’s view until all he can see is the swirling grains. “Where are you sending me, mother?”

 _What you need, my Son, is a place that is neither future, nor past, nor present._ The sands begin to dissipate, and through the fading grains, he can see a deep blackness, never-ending and peaceful. _What you need can be found in a World Between Worlds._

The sand disappears, as does the ground beneath his feet, and he falls, tumbling into the emptiness of nothing at all. Voices call out to him, some that he recognizes, with many that he does not. 

_You’re reckless, little one._

_Then I will avenge his death._

_Battles leave scars. Some you can’t see._

_I won’t leave you, father._

_Apathy is death._

_Rebellions are built on hope._

_To defeat an enemy, you must know them._

And he falls, and he falls, and he falls, held aloft by nothing but the grains of sand falling around him. He closes his eyes. 

_Ekkreth,_ Ar-Amu had said. Ekkreth. Sky-walker. Trickster. Shape-changer. 

Shape-changer.

He reaches to the Force and calls to the memory of the wings of shadow. 

They answer.

They feel foreign, the wings of a gargoyle, of a monster, on his back, but they feel natural all the same. They spread, eclipsing his view of the falling sand, covering the emptiness of nothing with the blackness of shadow-

And his eyes open as he finds himself standing on solid ground, the same emptiness in the sky above. There is nothing in view but an altar before him, an altar of red-black, and the small pyramid-shape that resides atop it. It calls to him, a siren song, cold and beautiful.

One of the voices he had heard comes back to mind.

_To defeat an enemy, you must know them._

He reaches inside himself and finds the cold caress of the Dark, and he pushes with it, and the Sith Holocron opens. 

A figure appears, robed in black, with a mask that looks like a strange variant of the helmets of Mandalore. “What do you seek?” it asks. 

Names have power. Anakin understood that truth long before he was Jedi. “I am a Son of the Force,” he says, and the Force sings with the truth of his statement. “I seek to understand the Sith.” 

The figure tilts his head, and Anakin feels as though he is being searched, examined. He fights the urge to shuffle, and instead stares back at the holocron. In the Force, it is a tumult of chaos, of rage, of a great power nearly comparable to what he had sensed in the Son. 

“Chosen One,” the Sith says softly. “You walk on the precipice between Dark and Light.” 

Anakin’s throat tightens and he slams down his shields. To give the Sith any leverage is dangerous. Obi-Wan would certainly be able to talk the Sith into circles, and Ahsoka would simply be unwavering, a pillar of Light so certain in her stance to the point where she wouldn’t even think of the temptation of the Dark. 

But they aren’t here, in the vision. There is only Anakin and the Sith. 

“I was a Jedi, once, and I sought power. Power to end war.” The Sith sounds sympathetic, and Anakin resents him for it, because he believes him. “I was a hero. A Commander capable of turning the tides of battle.” He pauses, and though he can’t see it, Anakin can hear the wry smile in the voice of the Sith. “Like you.” 

He can’t find his voice. Anakin opens his mouth, then closes it. The Sith is uncomfortably close to the truth. 

“I had a wife,” the Sith continues wistfully. “And I loved her. And like you, I sought to understand my enemy.” He tilts his head. “Are you strong enough, Son of the Force? Are you strong enough to keep your Balance, to walk the precipice forever?”

He doesn’t answer the question. To give the Sith any knowledge means giving a lever with which he could be manipulated. Instead, he asks, “What knowledge have you to give me?”

The Sith laughs, the Force around the holocron swirling in a malicious amusement. “You seek knowledge, and you know where to find it. Very well. Listen closely, Chosen One, for your enemies commit this to heart.” Unconsciously, Anakin steps forward, drawn to the words, which the Sith nearly sings with the lilting tones of ritual. “Peace is a lie, there is only passion. Through passion, I gain strength. Through strength, I gain power. Through power, I gain victory. The Force shall free me!”

At the final words, a maelstrom of Darkness erupts, swirling around them, another sandstorm of burnt grains circling around Anakin and the Sith. Something in Anakin shifts, and he realizes that he is being drawn out of the vision, pulled back into reality. At the last moment, on an impulse, he calls out. “Who are you, Sith?”

The figure is silent, and for a moment, Anakin wonders if he will be forever left with the mystery of this vision. 

Then he speaks.

“In life, I was many things. The Prodigal Knight. A hero. A Butcher. A Jedi. A sith. The slayer of Darth Malak and of Mandalore the Ultimate.” At those words, Anakin sucks in his breath as he recognizes the figure from the tales in the Temple, passed down in the hushed whispers of legend. “Son of the Force, I am Revan.” 

Then Anakin shoots up from his bed in his quarters at the Jedi Temple, sucking in great gasps of air, and when he shakes his hand, sand falls from between the crevices of his prosthetic.

\--

**Now.**

Of all the times for Navigator Vah’nya to come down with sickness, it has to be this mission.

It is… unbecoming of an admiral to show her worries in full display of her men. Nevertheless, Ar’alani is aware that her worries over Vah’nya have broken somewhat through her facade. The Chiss are uneasy - war with the Grysk looms on the horizon, and those who are born with Second and Third Sight are numbering less and less. To risk losing Vah’nya means a risk in losing the key to understanding those born with such gifts that support the Ascendancy. 

But there is something odd. While Vah’nya had been reporting that she had been feeling unwell, so had the other Navigators, and Ar’alani had feared that a sickness had come upon her crew. Yet, nothing had spread to the rest of her subordinates, and the only symptoms the Navigators had been experiencing were headaches and night terrors.

Ar’alani steps in the medical bay, now, where the Navigators are sleeping fitfully, tossing and turning in their beds. Their headaches have been lessened, thankfully, but the medicine is evidently useless for the night terrors. Ar’alani addresses the medic. “How do they fare?”

“Not so well, ma’am,” he replies, red eyes dark with worry. “I fear the lack of sleep may make them worse.”

“Have you identified the cause of the illness?” Ar’alani moves to stand beside Vah’nya’s bed, where the young woman’s face is twisted, her eyebrows scrunched together. 

“Possibly.” The medic taps into his datapad, drawing up observations to read. “I do believe that they are experiencing visions, ma’am. The night terrors are worse for the Navigators who have Second Sight.”

“I see.” Ar’alani frowns, wishing she could do something to alleviate the pain of the Navigators. They are so young, all of them, and it pains her to see them suffer. “This does not bode well. For them to sense something so overwhelming-”

Her train of thought is cut off when Vah’nya bolts awake, inhaling sharply, and Ar’alani moves, one hand reaching out. “Admiral!” gasps Vah’nya, and at that moment, the rest of the Navigators awaken, sitting up with cries of fear.

“Vah’nya, are you alright?” asks Ar’alani. 

It feels inadequate, but it’s all she can do.

One of the other Navigators is crying quietly. The medic moves, murmuring soft words of comfort, and Vah’nya hugs her arms around herself. “As well as we can be, ma’am,” she whispers, voice hoarse. 

Ar’alani grimaces. The terror of whatever nightmare the Navigators had suffered together permeates the air, making it clear that they are not in any shape to be at work. Which would be acceptable, normally, except without the Navigators, the _Steadfast_ is stranded in space, unable to go into hyperspace. 

“What did you see?” Ar’alani asks. “It could be of importance to the Ascendancy.”

“It is, ma’am,” Vah’nya whispers, and the rest of the Navigators nod with vehemence, some of them wiping tears away. “We saw a battle. A battle where a great evil fights another figure, clothed in red-black and blue-green.” 

Ar’alani stiffens. The Chiss Ascendancy had long been monitoring with some apprehensions the news of within the galaxy, and with it having fallen into civil war, the Chiss had left the galaxy well alone, deciding to deal with the Grysk instead, who were a much more immediate threat. 

“They were fighting to protect something else. A seraphim of white-gold,” Vah’nya continues, and there is hope on her face. “If they prevail, the seraphim is a symbol of returning Sight, Admiral. The future of the Ascendancy could be secured.” 

That… is good news indeed. But there is more. “And if they fail?”

The Navigators grimace, and Vah’nya wipes a tear from her eyes. “If they fail, the galaxy falls. The Sight fades.” 

A grim vision. Ar’alani reaches out, patting Vah’nya on the arm, and addresses the Navigators. “Thank you. I will not ask you to relive this again. Rest and recover - do not push yourselves.”

The Navigators thank her, gratefulness on her faces, and she makes rounds to each of their beds, murmuring soothing words of reassurance. She feels helpless, seeing them so ill - this is all she could do for them.

But there is much else she can do. 

As she stalks out of the medbay, she speaks into her comm. “Lieutenant,” she says, and she receives an affirmative. “Bring up all files on the inner galaxy conflict. I wish to examine them.” She takes a breath, and hardens her resolve. “No, not alone. I would like to examine them with Commander Mitth’raw’nurodo.”


	11. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan Kenobi needs a hug. 
> 
> A much-needed talk happens aboard the flagship, away from the surface of Coruscant.
> 
> And more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oookay. This chapter fought me tooth and nail and did not want to be written. But here it is, with some fluff this time. Not my best chapter - school's picking up the pace again.
> 
> If you haven't read "Flowers for the Emperor" by Fialleril, I suggest you read it. It partially inspired a section of this chapter.
> 
> Thank you all so much again for the comments. I haven't been able to respond to them individually, but I am reading all of them. I'm definitely taking some of your suggestions into the story - you will see it in later chapters. So if there's something you really want in here, let me know!

**Then**

Something wakes Ahsoka in the middle of the night.

It’s not- It’s not a vision, she’s certain. The cotton fabrics of her sheets and the soft foam of her bed is definitely reality, but there’s something off in the air. Something strange in the Force. 

“Oh,” she whispers softly, and quietly gets out of bed.

Her masters. That’s what it is. Through her bonds with them, she can sense that they’re both in turmoil. Stepping quietly, unconsciously using the Force to nullify the sounds of her steps, she opens her door and walks to another, knocking gently. “Master?” she whispers, and she sends a nudge through her bond with Anakin. _Are you alright?_

Through the closed door, she can hear great, heaving gasps of air, and she nearly opens the door herself before she hears a click and the door opens. She peeks inside, rubbing her eyes to try to clear her vision a little, and she sees Anakin, arms around himself and shivering. 

He doesn’t say anything with his voice. He tries to give her a smile, but it comes out more like a grimace, nervousness and anxiety leaking from him in gentle waves. _I’m alright,_ he sends through their bond, but she rolls her eyes and steps forward. 

“You had a vision, didn’t you?” At the lack of reply, she sighs. “You won’t be sleeping for a while, huh. I’ll go make you some tea.” 

He still doesn’t reply, but he sends a jumbled mess of _guiltgratefulnessconfusion_ through their bond, and she pokes his shields with an exasperated fondness in return. She leaves the room, walking softly through their quarters, but when she reaches for the mugs on the kitchen shelf, her hands move of their own accord and she finds herself with three mugs instead of two. 

She doesn’t question it. Quietly, she loses herself a little in the brewing process, carefully portioning out the sapir leaves and letting it steep. Minutes later, she levitates the cups with the Force and brings them with her out of the kitchen just as Anakin steps out of his room. As if from an unspoken agreement, they gravitate towards Obi-Wan’s room, where she can sense a muffled sorrow so deep it cuts at her too. 

Anakin knocks on the door. “Master.” There’s no response. “Obi-Wan.” 

Still nothing, but in the Force, the sorrow sharpens and there’s a new edge of shame. _I’m fine._

“Banthashavit,” mutters Anakin, and he opens the door. 

It’s too dark to really see anything. But Ahsoka is togruta, so her vision adjusts a little better, and her heart clenches. She’s never seen Master Kenobi like this - sitting up on his bed, covers askew, completely disheveled, eyes red, face twisted in a deep sorrow. “We brought you tea,” she says, and stops, because she isn’t sure if he will be able to hold onto the mug with how much he’s shaking. 

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Instead, he sends her his gratefulness through their bond, along with guilt of having woken her up. She rolls her eyes. “Stop blaming yourself, Master Kenobi.” 

He gives her a look, then, one usually reserved for Anakin - the raised eyebrow - and Anakin clicks his tongue. “Come on, move over, Obi-Wan.” 

Obi-Wan looks somewhat panicked, but he obeys nonetheless, trying (and failing) to discreetly wipe his face. Ahsoka senses a nudge in the Force and she relinquishes the hold of two of the teacups, allowing Anakin to move them into his own and Obi-Wan’s hands. She plops down on Obi-Wan’s left, and Anakin on his right, and together, they lean on Obi-Wan’s shoulders and sip their tea.

It’s a comfortable silence, only broken occasionally by Obi-Wan as he tries to get his breathing under control. Anakin hands him a box of tissues, and he takes it, thankfully. Around them, the Force murmurs gently, a lazy swirl of _lovebrotherfathersistermasterpadawan_ moving about the room, and Ahsoka refrains from cheering when Obi-Wan finally relaxes into their cuddling and takes a sip from his cup of tea. 

She hasn’t forgotten that Anakin had a vision, though. She’ll let that slide for now - until Obi-Wan seems to recover. 

It’s still dark outside. A quick glance at the chrono shows that it’s only 0231 hours, so there’s plenty of time to go back to sleep if they do decide to go back to it. The bed isn’t very big - it’s designed for one person, so while they can fit relatively easily while sitting up, she and Anakin still huddle into Obi-Wan and he lets them. 

After a while, he finally speaks, his voice hoarse and raw from breaking down. “It was a vision. I spoke to Qui-Gon,” he says, and Anakin sucks in a breath. 

Where had she heard that- Oh. 

Qui-Gon. Right - Obi-Wan’s master, the first Jedi slain by a Sith in over a thousand years. She’d been too young to remember when it had happened, but throughout the years, whispers passed from youngling to youngling had made its way through the creche. _The Sithslayer!_ They would whisper as they saw Master Kenobi in the halls. _He lost his master to the Sith. The first in a thousand years._

When she had seen him, back then, he had seemed bigger than life, a powerful Jedi who had killed a Sith, someone who was worthy of legend. Other rumors had bounced around, these ones more fickle - that Master Kenobi’s padawan was just as powerful, that maybe, just maybe - he could be the Chosen One.

She sits beside them now, beside the heroes that the younglings whisper about, and she doesn’t see the legend. She sees her masters. They are _people_ , they are human, and though she knows intimately that they are powerful, they seem so very, very small right now. 

Through the Force, Anakin projects his support, a bundle of _love-you’llbealright-wegotyou_ that makes Obi-Wan laugh quietly. Ahsoka follows suit, doing the same, and Obi-Wan sets his teacup down on a table with the Force and puts his arms around their shoulders, clutching at them like a lifeline. “The Force finally gave me the gift of a farewell,” he says, and his voice breaks. “It really was him.” 

Sithspit. She’s never seen Obi-Wan so undone and it pulls at her, making her heart ache for his pain. Resentfully, she suddenly wishes Maul really was dead for the pain he had inflicted on her grandmaster. 

“I’m glad,” Anakin whispers. He’d only spoken of Qui-Gon a handful of times with the tones of a young boy who saw him as a hero, larger than life and with infinite wisdom. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Obi-Wan chuckles, but it’s so filled with bitterness it gnaws at her. “He has faith in us,” he says, and Ahsoka tries not to gape. _Us_? As in… her too? She’d never even known him. Obi-Wan’s arm tightens around her shoulders. “He would have liked you very much, Ahsoka, and you would have gotten along with him too. He disrespected the Council almost as much as Anakin does.” 

Ahsoka laughs at Anakin’s sputtered protests, ignoring the quiet hole in her chest and the sting of loss for someone she could never know. “I’m glad you could see him one last time, Master Kenobi.” 

“I am too,” he whispers, and they lapse back into silence again, nursing their cups of tea. Obi-Wan calls his cup back from the table and moves his arm from her shoulders, but she doesn’t mind. The Force is quiet and calm here. _Family. Family. Family._

There’s something else, too. Something in the Force she doesn’t quite recognize, but it feels warm and safe. Maybe it’s-

Her teeth knock against something in the cup and she flinches, eyeing the tea with a newfound distrust. At her side, Obi-Wan and Anakin seem to have found something else at the bottom of their tea as well. “What did you put in this, Ahsoka?” Anakin asks.

“Hey, there were only tea leaves and water!” she says defensively. “I’m sure of it!” She’s a competent tea brewer, thank you very much!

It’s a little bit odd how they all discovered whatever it is at the bottom of the cup at the same time, but Ahsoka thinks nothing of it. In the darkness, she can’t see anything in the tea. Flicking out his hand, Obi-Wan turns on the lights of his room to a low setting, making them squint a little in the sudden brightness, dim as it is. Ahsoka glares into the cup, looking for the invader, and she frowns when she finds it. Reaching in, she grabs it with her fingers, and what she sees startles her enough to make her nearly drop it again.

It’s a silka bead. It’s shaped exactly like a perfect extension of her padawan braid, except unlike the other beads, this one is the colour of white-gold.

It is also, despite having been drenched in tea for the past hour, perfectly dry. 

At her side, her masters’ shock colours the Force, a sudden wash of emotion blasting through the lazy calm that was previously there. She glances over and sees them holding beads of their own - blue-green for Obi-Wan and red-black for Anakin. For them, the bead resembles something she’s seen on human padawan braids - a marker designed to discern when a Jedi learner faced a great trial. 

“This wasn’t me,” she manages feebly when she finds her voice. She’d never seen these before. And yet, there’s an inkling of something familiar in the bead, as if it came from somewhere she doesn’t know, but could have. 

Then she sees it. Her breath hitches, as do her masters’. In the corner of her eyes, she sees a smile, a mane of long hair, a hint of blue, and she hears a quiet laughter that makes her feel at home. Her head snaps to the side, searching, and she finds nothing. 

“Who’s there?” she asks nervously. When no answers come, she turns to her masters. “Who was that?”

Obi-Wan doesn’t speak. He stares at her, then at the bead, and his mouth opens. No sound comes out. At his side, Anakin fingers the red-black bead, and looks at her with a muted shock. 

Then she understands, and it fills her with warmth. She speaks into the Force.

_It’s nice to finally meet you, Master Jinn._

And if she listens really hard, she thinks she can hear him. 

_I am glad to meet you too, my great-grandpadawan._

\--

The Coruscanti night is something that Yoda has always appreciated. 

Even now, at the height of the war, the night on this planet offers him a modicum of peace. It’s simplistic - the constant flow of speeder traffic, the lights of the many skyscrapers in the Senate District, the dull hum of the planet as life slows but does not stop when the sun goes down. In his quarters, he sits on the soft cushioned chair and breathes in the softy musty air of this part of the living quarters. It is… calmer here, in the center of Light. 

As he sinks into a meditation, he ponders the changes that have occurred regarding Obi-Wan and his padawans (and though Padawan Tano is officially Skywalker’s padawan, everyone in the Temple knows that Obi-Wan is teaching her as his own). And they have changed - though it pleases him greatly to see that the changes have drawn Padawan Tano more firmly to the Light, he worries for Skywalker, who seems to be drawing closer to the Dark. 

As for Obi-Wan…

It perplexes Yoda greatly. For hundreds of years, he had believed that balance meant the destruction of Darkness and the prevalence of Light. Yet what he had sensed from Obi-Wan was not a shining Light but a solid, towering _grey_ , a mix of Darkness and Light. 

Perhaps the Code - and his teachings - had been wrong?

It is a strange thing to ponder. 

Yoda’s mind turns back to Skywalker. Since the mission to Mortis, his Force-presence had Darkened just as Padawan Tano’s had Lightened. From what he remembers from his readings on the Nightsisters and his archival knowledge of ancient Jedi lore, he believes it to be possible that the physical manifestations of the Dark and Light side of the Force have found a home in the bodies of Skywalker and Padawan Tano.

And that is deeply troubling. They are so, so young - to bear such a burden fills him with dread. They should not be forced to hold such a responsibility. 

_Yoda._

The Force calls to him in the midst of his meditation. Only it isn’t just the Force - there’s some familiarity in the voice that it uses.

_Yoda._

“Hear you, I do,” Yoda calls back. “Who are you?” 

He waits patiently, but the Force gives him no reply. 

“My imagination, it must be,” he mutters. He should probably sleep-

_No. It is I, Qui-Gon Jinn._

The Force sings with truth, and if Yoda were not the Grandmaster of the Order, he would have gasped and denied it. But he is, so his brows furrow and he speaks calmly. “It cannot be. Dead, you are.”

_No. I am part of the Living Force, Yoda._

His eyes widen as the Force swells around him. Invisible arms lift him into the air as the Force swirls around his room, levitating his furniture with a presence that he has not felt in twelve years. 

“Communicate with me, how are you able?” Yoda had once heard a whisper of Qui-Gon’s voice - years ago, before the battle of Geonosis - but he had never heard it since.

_The Force has grown stronger with the manifestations of the Ones in the corporeal world._

Obi-Wan and his padawans. “In danger, are they?”

_No. This is a path they must walk alone._

Yoda’s ears droop. To walk such a burdensome path alone is not something he would ever wish upon his students. But he has faith - as a teacher, he knows he must one day step back and allow his students to bear their responsibilities. “Then, what do, shall I?”

_Come to me on Dagobah._

Then the presence disappears, leaving behind nothing but an echo of a presence gone too soon.

\--

“Do you sense anything?”

Foolish Jedi. They are in the heart of their strength, yet they are still blind. 

“I’m not sure-”

He reaches out, and with a twist of his hands, the two Temple Guards lay dead on the floor with crushed trachea. Pity. He would have enjoyed their screams. But it is too dangerous to play with them here. He must move swiftly. 

He flicks his finger, and a single bolt of Force Lightning destroys the security cam and the door controls, and the heavy cell door opens. The prisoner takes his chance, leaping out, and when he sees his rescuer, he falls to his knees. “Master!” gasps Maul. 

Hmm. Maul is a loose end. It would be much preferable to kill him, to end his miserable existence here - impressive as his survival is - but to kill him here would mean alerting the Jedi to the presence of the Sith on Coruscant. No. Better that it seems like Maul has escaped on his own. This way, there is no chance that his identity shall be revealed. 

“Most impressive.” Darth Sidious eyes the mechanical legs of his former apprentice with a newfound respect. Maul had been nothing but an attack dog - an assassin to be used until no longer needed. But the survival of such a grievous wound certainly deserves commendation. “I suggest you leave before the Jedi come to investigate their fallen Guards.”

Imbeciles. So simple-minded. They are so slow in their reactions. It has already been forty-two seconds, and they are only just now beginning to come. They will arrive to find nothing but an empty cell.

In a burst of speed fueled by the Force, he disappears from the Temple.

Morning comes, and his security is doubled. 

“Master Windu! I do hope everything is well?”

“I’m afraid not, Chancellor. We have reason to believe there may be a dangerous Force-user who is on the loose in Coruscant.”

“Oh, goodness!” Goodness, indeed. It will be a test of patience to have a Jedi guard watching him at all times. What an annoyance. But it is a consequence that he has foreseen and accepted. 

They speak. It is quite easy to pretend to be a kind old man, worried for the people of Coruscant and for the Jedi.

“I assure you, Chancellor, we will not allow any Sith to set foot inside the Senate building,” says Master Windu with great conviction, and inside, Palpatine cackles at the irony.

“I have complete faith in you, Master Jedi,” he responds kindly. “I am sure you never will.”

What a blind fool.

\--

Morning on Coruscant brings turmoil. 

At 0400 hours, the Jedi were rudely awakened by a surge in the Dark Side of the Force at the heart of _their Temple_ , followed by a barely-hidden panic as they realized that the Sith Lord they had imprisoned had somehow managed to escape the Force-proof cell and kill the Temple Guards. What this means is two things: that one, Maul is somewhere on Coruscant, free to wreak havoc, and two, Obi-Wan Kenobi and his padawans have not gotten a single minute of sleep since they were awoken by those visions. 

The Council meeting at 0700 hours is filled with urgency and irritation, borne from the frustration of having let a Sith escape onto Coruscant and from the lack of sleep everyone in the room has gotten. There is much to do; Skywalker and Kenobi are sent together to hunt down Maul, Shaak Ti is sent to look for the missing Togruta colonists, Plo Koon is sent to oversee the removal of the chips alongside Ahsoka Tano. Later, behind closed doors, Mace Windu agrees to fake his death and assume the identity of Rako Hardeen. Yoda is quiet throughout it all, but when he finally does speak, he reveals that the Force has told him to go to Dagobah. The Council shifts and murmurs at this, but a quick meditation reveals the Will of the Force, and they relent.

The Council also decides, with some reluctance, not to notify the public of the escape of Darth Maul - or, more specifically, they will not tell Coruscant that he is a Sith. He will be cautious, they reason, and any slaughter will bring the immediate attention of the entire Jedi Order. Powerful as he is, he cannot take down the entire might of the Order. He will likely try to keep a low profile before he finds a way to escape. We will not tell the public there is a dangerous Sith Lord on the loose - it could hurt the Jedi’s reputation, hurt the war effort, and the odds of him killing indiscriminately are low. At most, we will notify the public that there is a dangerous criminal on the loose.

Anakin leaves unconvinced and seething at the arrogance of the Council. The odds of a madman killing indiscriminately are low?

At least Obi-Wan agrees that it’s a stupid decision. But there is nothing they can do without setting off unknown consequences. Nothing but try their best to catch Maul. 

\--

The holoscreens at bars flash, warning of an escaped criminal.

_Warning. Considered armed and dangerous. Do not approach. Notify Coruscant Police if there is information._

This isn’t anything new in the lower levels of Coruscant. The patrons continue as if nothing is amiss, because truly, where can you _not_ find a criminal in places like this?

The bartender sets up a drink. “Corellian brandy,” he says, and a gloved hand from a hooded patron snatches it and downs it in one gulp. Under the hood, the bartender can see golden eyes and a red-and-black tattooed face matching the profile of the escaped criminal.

He notices it, and doesn’t care. Why should he? It’s just another customer. 

The hooded patron leaves shortly after that. Half an hour later, two other hooded figures move into the bar. The bartender doesn’t notice them until they’re at the table, and when he finally does see them, all he can see is their eyes. Blue-green and ice blue with flecks of gold. 

“Have you seen this man?” Blue-green flicks out a credit and the bartender catches it, eyeing the small holo projection of that dangerous criminal he saw earlier.

Well. He wasn’t paid to keep quiet.

“Yeah. Was here half an hour ago. Left the bar and went south.”

Blue-gold-eyes seems to get angry at this, but Blue-green puts out a hand. “Thank you. Let’s go, Anakin,” he says, and Blue-gold huffs, and they disappear a little too quickly into the crowd. 

The bartender scowls. Blasted Jedi. Hopefully, no one noticed, or else his business will suffer for the next few months. 

\--

In the lower levels of Coruscant, everyone keeps to themselves. It is, quite simply, the rule of life. 

But even though everyone acts as though they see nothing but their intended path, everyone is aware that the rest of the sentients are fully aware of all that goes around them. They pretend not to see, but their awareness is sharp. It has to be, to survive down here. 

What does this mean?

It means no one cares about the flashing holoscreens and their warning of an escaped criminal who’s supposedly armed and dangerous.

It means no one cares when they see that same zabrak in the corner of their eyes, rushing past the shops. 

It means they do notice when they see the shadows in the street shifting slightly, as if something unseen is moving through them. 

It means they do notice when they see a robed figure blink in and out of existence, leaving behind nothing but a blue-green mist. 

It means they don’t care when that strange phenomenon passes by them, and they forget by the next day.

Why should they care? It doesn’t concern them. 

\--

It's been a long week, and the presence of an escaped criminal with the face of a long-dead man looms heavily over the Senator of Naboo and her security. 

“How could he have survived?” hisses Rabé. She was there during the invasion of Naboo - she had seen the menacing yellow eyes, felt the anger of the Sith who had taken Qui-Gon Jinn’s life. “I thought he was dead.”

“Me too,” murmurs Padmé, and she wonders briefly why the Jedi Council hasn’t notified anyone about exactly how dangerous Darth Maul could be. What’s more, she hasn’t heard anything from Obi-Wan or Anakin - of all the Jedi, she wonders how they would be dealing with the return of Qui-Gon’s murderer.

She’s a politician. She was the Queen of Naboo. She’s used to having her every move watched, used to watching her back for assassins. But for there to be a renegade Sith Lord on the loose - it fills her with uneasiness beyond what she’s used to.

But there’s nothing to be done about this. Not for her, anyway. 

She sits in silence at the dining table, eyeing the long shadows cast by the flower vases in the Coruscanti sunrise. Rabé sits at her side, reading a book on her datapad, and Padmé takes a moment to sit back and bask in the quiet calm of Coruscant before the beginning of the work day. Moments like this are rare-

A movement in the corner of her eye appears from the shadows. 

Padmé shoots upwards, blaster in one hand and vibroblade in another, immediately on guard. Rabé, too, is on her feet, one hand already poised over the comm, the other holding a vibroblade. 

They stand back to back, looking for any signs of movement. Padmé’s stomach is jumping - she can defend herself, as could Rabé, but against a Sith Lord, she’s not too sure of her chances. 

Rabé’s breath hitches and Padmé whirls, bringing her blaster to bear. But there’s nothing. 

“Milady, the flowers,” she whispers. Padmé looks, and stares at the flowers which stand in the previously empty vase. 

Twelve billa ferns - memory that survives beyond death. They’re entwined with the rukee lily - sacrifice in the face of evil. Two branches from the hsuberry tree, twined together - strength from brotherhood. A single black casta flower, overshadowed by the hsuberry - triumph over an old evil. Five shuura flowers - I am with you, and I will protect you. 

She’s filled with the sudden ridiculous urge to laugh. A part of her mind is aware that she should most definitely be questioning how Anakin was able to get the time to find and assemble the flowers during his mission to track down Maul with Obi-Wan, just as she should be wondering how on earth he was able to bypass all her security and deposit them neatly in her vase without a single soul noticing. And yet, she can’t help but think that this is so _romantic._

“Oh, Ani,” she gasps, and the tension disappears from Rabé’s shoulders. Like all other Handmaidens in Padmé’s service, Rabé is fluent in Naboo’s complex flower language, and she understands the meaning of the bouquet - that Anakin and Obi-Wan will protect them, and that they are on the right path to track down Maul. 

Rabé lets out a strangled sound, half-laughter and half-squawk of indignation, leading them both to finally break and burst into laughter. 

Ridiculous as it is, Padmé feels safer. 

\--

They find Maul at a hangar, locked in combat with Ahsoka. 

She’s breathing hard, leaning heavily into the Force to prevent the slightest mistake. Maul has stolen Plo Koon’s lightsaber - behind Ahsoka, the Kel Dor is stirring feebly, blood running from a wound on his head. Green and yellow flash against blue, a blinding whirl in a dangerous dance, and even from the distance, Obi-Wan can sense that Ahsoka is tiring. 

The civilians have long fled the hangar (thankfully). As they draw their lightsabers, Anakin hesitates, and Obi-Wan understands. “Check on Master Plo!” he shouts, and he leaps into combat against Maul. 

It says something when Anakin doesn’t even complain. Through their bond, Obi-Wan can sense the worry he holds for Ahsoka and Master Plo, the anger at Maul, and the fear he holds, both for the others and for himself. 

They both know that if Anakin joins the fight, Plo will see Anakin’s saber, and he will see how it bleeds crimson in the Force. And that is not something they can afford to reveal. 

The moment Maul’s eyes land on Obi-Wan, he screams in rage. “Kenobi!” he roars, and the strength of his rage knocks Ahsoka backwards, sending her flying. She lands on her feet, and Obi-Wan pretends that he didn’t see a glimpse of the wings of a white-gold griffin behind her back in the corner of his eyes, pretends that he doesn’t see how her eyes are the colour of jade. Maul is too absorbed in his rage to notice, his blows coming in a powerful whirl of azure, and Obi-Wan sinks into the Force, deflecting each blow with a twist of his wrist. 

(He takes care not to sink too deeply.)

Behind him, he can sense Master Plo’s presence sharpening as he regains his senses. 

Two things happen at once. 

One, Maul lashes out with a powerful Force push, throwing Obi-Wan and Ahsoka into each other and sending them tumbling down the hangar bay. He hurls Plo’s lightsaber at them, cutting a deadly arc through the air, and they are forced to scramble aside. Obi-Wan feels the heat of the blade as it passes by his legs, missing him by a quarter of an inch. 

And two, with the strength of a desperate, cornered beast, Maul reaches into the Force, and _heaves._

A shuttle from the side of the hangar rises and throws itself towards Anakin and Plo, unrelenting in its advance. It’s coming too quickly for them to leap aside. They reach out with the Force, trying to slow its advance, but it’s not enough, it’s not _enough-_

Obi-Wan throws out his hands, and at his side, he can sense Ahsoka doing the same. They fall deeply into the Force in tandem, pushing against the advancing shuttle, telling it to stop.

Stop.

_Stop._

And it does. 

The shuttle screeches to a halt three feet from Anakin and Plo, the sound of metal grating against duracrete ringing in their ears. A different sound intrudes; the sound of a different ship, already powered up, and lifting into the sky. Anakin is already shouting into his comm, requesting air support and relaying the information of the stolen ship, but Obi-Wan knows - he _knows_ \- that it’s too late. 

They sense it, not seven minutes later, when the presence filled with malice and rage disappears into hyperspace. 

\--

Hours later, after they’ve reported to the Council, they find themselves in the skies above Coruscant on the _Resolute II_ under the pretense of checking on their men’s recovery.

Which, they do - Anakin is immensely relieved to find that his men are well, all of them now with matching bandages on the side of their heads. “Only the clone leadership is aware of the nature of the chips, Master,” Ahsoka tells him. 

Rex nods. “The shinies think that it’s a tumor, sir. They’re instructed to not talk about it in order to prevent the spread of panic, but we’re afraid that with too many troopers in the know, whoever ordered it could get wind of the de-chipping.”

Anakin clenches his fists, both at the reminder of corruption and at the reminder that he had been _leading an army of slaves and he didn’t know_ , and he musters up what he hopes passes for a grateful smile to Rex and Ahsoka. “Thank you. Without your help, we couldn’t possibly have gotten this done.”

“Anything to get my brothers freed, sir,” Rex says, and Anakin tries not to think about how he wasn’t able to do the same for his friends on Tatooine.

(He wonders, privately, if Kitster is still alive, and he resents himself for not even thinking to check.)

An hour later, Obi-Wan arrives from the _Negotiator_ with reports of his men well on the road to recovery and with Cody in tow. “Anakin,” he says with a meaningful glance, “I do believe that it’s time we’ve talked with Ahsoka.”

Anakin grits his teeth. This is not a conversation he wants to be having - not with the weight of their failure to capture Maul weighing down on his shoulders. Still, it’s long overdue, and he has a sinking feeling that they won’t be leaving Coruscant - or the planet surface - in a while. This short time aboard the _Resolute II_ is all they could possibly get. “Alright,” he grumbles, and turns to Ahsoka. “Come on.”

Then he stops. Considers. And he turns to Rex. “You too, Rex. I think you should be part of this.”

Looking surprised, Rex starts, and an emotion Anakin can’t quite identify flashes across his face before Rex falls back onto the mask of a soldier. “Yes, sir!” 

Anakin offers a nod to Cody, too - like Rex, he deserves to be in on this. 

They walk out of the hangar in silence. 

\--

Since they returned from Umbara, Rex has barely seen hide nor hair of his General. 

He doesn’t blame him. Rex is grateful - undeniably so - for how his Generals and Commander worked tirelessly to decrypt the inhibitor chips in order to determine how to remove them safely. What’s more, the missions to capture and re-capture Maul were definitely stressful, and during that time, Rex had been recovering from having a kriffing slave chip removed from his head. 

They find their way to an empty storage bay, Rex and Cody and the Jedi who are moving in such a way that it makes Rex a little uneasy with how something he can’t name seems to be _off_ , and part of him notices that this is the same storage bay he found General Skywalker hiding in after Umbara. At Rex’s side, Cody looks a little uneasy, and his hands and lips twitch in a subtle signal unique to clone leadership. 

_WORRIED._

Rex’s lips twitch, setting in a grim line, but he doesn’t sign anything in response. He’s worried, too, but he trusts his Generals. He trusts his Commander. 

They settle in the middle of the storage bay on the ground, free from prying eyes, and they sit in a silence that seems to grow heavier by the second. The bay is nearly empty of cargo, only a few crates here and there casting low shadows in the overhead light. Rex takes stock of the area, a habit he’s fallen into as a soldier to check for any bugs or eavesdroppers, and that’s when he notices what’s off. 

It’s their shadows. General Skywalker’s shadow is a little too large, General Kenobi’s shadow fuzzy at the edges, as if it were dissolving into a mist, and Commander Tano’s shadow is just… not there. 

(If he looks at her from the corner of his eye, he can almost see what looks like a white-gold light shining from her skin, casting enough light to wash away any shadows.

He blinks, and glances at her directly, and the image is gone.)

General Kenobi finally breaks the silence. “As you all may be aware, following our mission to Mortis, there were unforeseen consequences which affected the three of us.” He meets Rex’s eyes, then Ahsoka’s, then Cody’s. “Commander Cody, Captain Rex, we’ve brought you both into our confidence because we believe you both deserve to be aware of what has happened. We have you in our highest confidence, but this bears repeating - what is said in this room does not leave the room.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” They chorus. 

“We don’t know exactly what’s happening,” General Skywalker says. “But we do know that we’ve been gifted part of the legacy of the beings we found on Mortis.” He looks up, gaze sliding to Ahsoka, then Rex, and Rex swears he can see flecks of gold in his General’s eyes that weren’t there before. 

“Like what I did for Echo,” murmurs Ahsoka, and Rex frowns.

“What about Echo?” he asks.

There’s a strange feeling in his gut. He knows what she’s talking about - he’s sure of it - but try as he might, the thought slips through his fingers, as if he were trying to hold onto mist. 

She flinches, as if she was unaware that she had spoken aloud, and guilt flashes across her face. “At the Citadel,” she says hesitatingly, then falters, looking at her masters.

They both look guilty, too. 

There’s a beat of silence, then General Skywalker speaks, his voice low. “What you remember from the Citadel was altered,” he confesses, and Rex feels like he’s been punched in the gut. “Echo nearly died. Ahsoka brought him back.”

“We acted as the Force willed,” General Kenobi continues. “It was as if we were being directed by something other than ourselves.”

That’s cold comfort. Rex is glad - very, very glad - that they were able to keep Echo alive. He’d already lost so many brothers. But there’s something there that sits wrong in his gut that he thinks he has a right to speak out against.

Cody does it first. “So what you’re saying is that you mind-tricked us.”

There’s a dull headache forming behind Rex’s eyes, separate from the gentle throb from the removal wound of the inhibitor chip. There’s an inkling of betrayal - he’d been mind-tricked before, by Ventress, but he never thought it would come from his Generals and Commander. 

But he wants to understand. They wouldn’t do it without good reason. So he shoves aside his hurt and listens. 

“We did.” General Kenobi is unflinching. “We understand that our actions are not something you both agree with. We won’t offer excuses - what we can tell you is that the Force did not want any witnesses.” He pauses, then adds, “Particularly Captain Tarkin.”

Rex remembers the Captain, remembers how Tarkin expressed disdain for Commander Tano and judged her with arrogance, remembers the slimy feeling he got from a Captain that he felt would have no qualms pushing others down to bring himself up. He imagines Tarkin, aware of the healing power of Ahsoka, and Rex wonders how Tarkin would exploit that. 

He’d lock her in a medbay, probably. If not physically, he’d craft some karking legislation and keep her trapped. Part of Rex wonders if Tarkin could possibly be one of the officials behind the inhibitor chips. 

Still. “I can’t say I like it, Generals,” he says, eyeing their apologetic looks. “But I understand.”

“We might be able to remove it,” Ahsoka offers. “The memory block.” 

“That… would be appreciated,” Cody says, and Rex jerks his head sharply in agreement. 

“Very well,” General Kenobi agrees, and he holds out his hand. 

It’s a little unnerving, watching his Generals and Commander hold out their hand in tandem. Their brows furrow, the three of them wearing the same expressions of concentration and befuddlement, and if the situation were any less serious, he would take a snapshot to lock this moment in a holo forever to tease them endlessly for it.

But it is serious. Rex watches them and tries not to flinch when their eyes fly open in tandem. 

(Eyes of blue-green flame, of molten gold, of shining jade.)

“Remember,” they say, and Rex is pretty sure he hears more than three voices. 

The headache behind his eyes intensifies and he winces, gritting his teeth against the pain.

Then it disappears, and he remembers. 

It isn’t an explosive realization. He doesn’t pass out or flinch - neither does Cody. Rather, it’s as if he was suddenly reminded of something he didn’t think of earlier, the thought finally becoming solid enough to grasp, the memory appearing in the back of his mind, just as easily accessible as the rest of his memories. 

The Jedi are watching him carefully, him and Cody both. Rex looks back, then stares at Commander Tano, suddenly able to remember how her skin glowed with a white-gold that burned his eyes and sent a sharp pain throughout his entire being when he stared at her. 

“Rex?” She waves her hand, once. “Are you alright?”

He stares at her, and he swears if he really tries to _look_ , he can see the outer skin of the young togruta peeling back to reveal a seraphim with a thousand eyes and a thousand tongues and too many teeth, her wings of white-gold light spreading across the hangar to devour the entire space.

(He’s a little afraid to try to look at his Generals too hard.)

“Yeah,” he manages, and rubs his eyes. “Yeah, kid, I’m alright.”

Beside him, Cody shakes his head once, then twice, clearing it from the fog of having regained a memory. “So that’s what you meant by the ‘gift of a legacy,’” he says. 

It doesn’t cross Rex’s mind to thank his Generals and his Commander for giving him and his brother back their memory. It was theirs in the first place, after all. 

And the Jedi understand that, and accept it. 

“We believe that knowledge of our abilities could be useful in future missions and campaigns,” General Kenobi says, and there’s a small surge of hope in Rex - a hope that maybe, just maybe more of his brothers will come back alive. If Ahsoka could save Echo… “But we must be cautious. The knowledge of our abilities in the wrong hands could prove to be dangerous indeed.”

Rex imagines Grievous or Ventress, able to regenerate from deadly wounds in a flash of white-gold. It doesn’t paint a pretty picture.

Then he remembers the image he thinks he saw, of General Skywalker standing with wings of shadow above the desecrated corpse of Krell and a bloody besalisk hand in one hand, and he wonders. “Sir,” he asks haltingly, “your abilities - they aren’t the same, are they?”

Anakin’s lips press into a thin line. Not for the first time, Rex notices how even when sitting in the company of friends, his General is like a tusk-cat with each movement: graceful, deliberate, and very, very dangerous. “No, they aren’t,” he says. “There are things I can do which the Council will not approve of.”

"Care to do a demonstration?" Ahsoka snarks with a gesture. It occurs to Rex that it's completely possible that she's as much in the dark about the General's abilities as he is. She wasn't at Umbara, and she wasn't on the missions against Maul. No wonder she's a little snippy - in her shoes, Rex can only imagine what it is like, having new abilities that your masters have discussed without you. 

General Skywalker gives her a smile that’s half-smirk, half-grimace, and wholly something that’s a little bit off with how it looks too wide. “Alright,” he agrees, and he stands. He moves to step behind General Kenobi. “This could be useful in missions.” 

Then he steps into General Kenobi’s shadow, and they swallow Anakin’s body. 

Rex is on his feet in an instant, hands automatically reaching towards his twin blasters. 

_What._

“At ease, Captain,” Anakin says, only Rex can’t see him anywhere in the hangar. But his voice is everywhere, ringing from Rex’s own shadow at his feet to the shadows of the crates in the far end of the hanger. One of the shadows by the crates seems to swell, a dark lump rising from the ground. It straightens, the darkness falling away, and Rex is staring into the golden eyes of his General, whose mouth looks far too wide and whose movements look far too smooth to be human. 

No wonder the General wanted to hide this from the Council. They’d pull their lightsabers on him.

He’s seen this before. It was terrifying then, and it’s kriffin’ terrifying now. Then he imagines his General facing off against Grievous or Ventress in this form, and his terror turns to glee. The Seppies don’t stand a karking chance. 

“You can teleport,” Cody says, deadpan. “And you can hear us when you’re in the-” He gestures to the ground, running through different words in his mind before he gives up, hands pointing helplessly downwards. “When you’re there. That could be useful in recon and stealth missions.”

“I agree.” It’s General Kenobi who stands this time, his eyes glancing towards the other far end of the hangar. “But that is not all we could do.”

Rex turns, and in the span of a blink, General Kenobi is gone, leaving behind nothing but a hint of blue-green mist. 

This time, it’s Cody jumping to his feet. A startled “General!” escapes from him, shock in every feature of his face. 

“At ease.” At the sound of General Kenobi’s voice, both Rex and Cody whip around, turning to see Obi-Wan at the opposite end of Anakin at the far end of the hangar. “As you can see, this could very well give us the upper hand in our upcoming missions.”

It could. Plans previously unable to be enacted unfold in Rex’s mind. He sees shorter campaigns, his Generals able to jump behind enemy lines in an instant to take down shield generators. 

He sees so many lives saved. 

At his side, Ahsoka speaks his thoughts aloud. “We could save so many with shorter campaigns,” she whispers, and just for a moment, Rex is reminded that despite her maturity, she’s still sixteen - she’s still a _child._

Then it disappears, replaced by the mask of a Jedi soldier, and it strikes Rex how _wrong_ it is that a sixteen-year-old has to have that mask. 

“You said there was something you couldn’t show me when we were in the Temple, Master,” she says. “Something that you were afraid the Council would sense.” 

General Skywalker’s face darkens, and for a split second, he doesn’t look human at all. “There is.” He looks up. “Obi-Wan?”

And before Rex can truly comprehend what is going on, several of the empty wooden crates rise from the floor, held in General Kenobi’s telekinetic grip, and they shoot towards Anakin at the speed of a cannon blast. 

It’s almost too fast for him to see, but Rex catches every moment. General Skywalker raises his hand, and just for a millisecond, Rex wonders if his General is going to wave aside the debris, just like how he’d seen it done on the battlefield a million times before. _This isn’t new, General,_ he wants to say. 

Then his vision goes red. 

The room is bathed in crimson. Red lightning leaps from General Skywalker’s fingertips, slashing through the air and reaching hungrily for the crates. They devour the wood in the span of a second, and the lightning stops.

There is nothing left but ashes around General Skywalker’s feet. 

Silence falls again in the hangar, weighed by the implications. Ahsoka’s eyes are wide. Non-Force-Sensitive as he is, Rex can feel her unease. 

Damn. 

Then Cody breaks it. “With all due respect, sir,” he says wryly, “I can’t wait to see how many clankers you could destroy like that.” 

General Skywalker smiles, all teeth and fangs that shouldn’t belong on his face, and his eyes slide to Ahsoka. “Does that answer your question, Ahsoka?”

At the sound of her name, the shock slides off her face, replaced by a sharp grin. “It does. General Grievous won’t know what hit him.” 

Rex knows her well enough to know that she’s still uneasy. He admits to himself that the demonstration of General Skywalker’s heightened abilities makes him uneasy, too. Unbidden, memories of his Generals recovering in the medbay from Dooku’s lightning rise up, and Rex pushes them down with a fervor. 

He has faith in this General, and he knows Commander Tano does, too. Anakin would never betray them. 

Never.

\--

Hours later, Anakin fumes in his quarters, ranting to Obi-Wan. 

“We could have caught Maul,” he seethes. “I’m powerful enough.”

“You could have, but at what cost?” Obi-Wan watches him carefully from his chair, arms crossed. “You could have caught him and revealed your abilities not just to the Council, but also to a Sith Lord. We did what we could.”

“It’s not _enough!_ ” he snarls. On the ground, his shadow wavers, flickering at the strength of his anger. “What good is the legacy of the Force-Wielders if we can’t even use them well?”

“We can’t change everything, Anakin.” Obi-Wan’s voice is unwavering, his presence a strong grey and set in an unmoving foundation in the Force. “We are not all-powerful.” 

Anakin slumps, his posture giving out as he sits down hard on his bed. “We failed,” he says, and leaves it at that.

Obi-Wan can’t bring himself to disagree, because really, they did. The ghost of Qui-Gon’s murderer looms over him, and he wishes, not for the first time, that he went for the head. 

\--

_We can’t change everything._

\--

**Now.**

_We can’t change everything_ , Obi-Wan had said, and for just a moment, Anakin resents his Master for the truth of those words. 

\--

_Elsewhere, in the Outer Rim._

There’s something wrong outside. 

It’s really loud. Really scary. Mama is hugging him, and Papa looks scared, and Din shivers at the bad sounds he’s hearing outside.

He’s four. Four years old. He thinks that that’s a very big number, because he can reach the chair by himself and sometimes get the cookies from the table, but right now, he feels very very small. “We’ll be ok, Din,” Mama whispers, and her voice trembles. Din doesn’t like it - it sounds like she wants to cry, and it makes him want to cry too, because what could hurt Mama? “You’ll be okay.” 

Papa is holding something - it’s one of his sports bats, for when he plays ball - and it shines, a little, in the dim light. Din is still learning how to read big words, but he’s very proud of being able to read the word (well, the name) that’s painted on the bat in big red letters.

_DJARIN._

The walls are shaking. Din thinks that might be why Mama and Papa are so scared - he’s pretty sure the walls aren’t supposed to be shaking. Papa has an arm around both Din and Mama as if he wants to protect them from everything, and Din huddles a little closer, because surely Mama and Papa can take care of it. They took care of it when the mean kids around the corner pushed him and when he dropped the big vase from the table, so they can take care of this too, right?

There’s a very weird clicking and whirring sound outside. It sounds like the droids Din has seen in the workshop down the street, only it’s louder, and it’s accompanied by this strange noise that Din has only heard when he snuck up at night to secretly watch the action and war holos Papa would put on. But it can’t be a blaster noise, because that would mean that there is a battle here, and that doesn’t make sense. This is a small town. _Peaceful,_ like Mama said. 

Something falls on his face and he wipes his eyes, staring at the white dust that he rubbed away from his face. It’s coming from the ceiling. Does this mean that the house is going to fall?

“Mama,” he tries to ask, but she shushes him, hand over his mouth. He falls quiet. 

Then there’s a really big boom, and the wall of their house disappears as the ground shakes and shakes and shakes. Mama and Papa shout, too, their voices loud, and Din covers his ears. He doesn’t like this. Not at all. 

From the hole in the wall, he can see strange metal droids. They’re really tall, kind of like a human, but with a head that’s stuck in their chest. In the sky, it’s raining, but in such a way he’s never seen before. There’s a big ship that’s throwing down huge beams of light into the village, and each time it strikes, there’s a loud _boom_ that shakes the ground. 

Din thinks he should be crying. This all seems so wrong. But he can’t. He just stares, and stares, and stares. He doesn’t understand this. 

“The bunker,” Papa whispers, and his voice is rough. “For Din.” 

“Yes,” Mama says back, and her voice is shaking so much. She hugs Din tightly, then passes him to Papa. “Yes. We need to hurry.”

Mama and Papa stand, and they run. 

The air outside is thick with smoke. There’s a lot of screaming, kind of like how Din remembers the other kids screaming and laughing when they’re playing catch-ball, except there’s no laughing and the screams here sound really bad and scary. Mama and Papa run in-between houses, hiding from the bad droids. 

The ground keeps shaking. Din can feel it as Papa stumbles, losing his footing then regaining it. He loses his sports bat somewhere. “We’ll be okay, Din, we’ll be okay,” Papa keeps saying, but Din thinks it sounds like a lie. And that scares him, because he doesn’t want it to be a lie. 

It’s so loud everywhere. On the ground, Din can see Old Mira, the cranky neighbor. She isn’t moving. That’s wrong - she’s supposed to always be moving, hobbling about with her cane and grumbling. He turns his head a little and sees Lora, the shopkeeper, and she looks really scared. A bright red light from the bad droid hits her, and she falls and doesn’t get back up. 

He hates this. It’s scary. It’s scary. What’s going on? What’s happening? Din just wants to go to sleep in his bed and wake up from this bad dream. He buries his face in Papa’s neck and hugs him tight. _Wake up!_ He screams to himself. _Wake up!_

He can’t wake up. This isn’t a dream. This is real. 

Papa stops moving and moves his arms, grabbing Din to set him on the ground. “Come on, Din,” he says. He moves, grabbing the big, heavy doors of the bunker, and lifting them open.

Mama grabs Din and hugs him tight. Din hugs back, because there’s a very bad feeling in his stomach. “I love you, baby,” she cries, and Din wants to cry too. Why is she crying? He just wants to hug Mama forever. “Remember that, Din. I love you.”

“Come on,” Papa says urgently, and he grabs Din, pulling him into a quick hug before lifting him into the bunker. “Stay in there until we come and get you, okay?” 

Din nods. They all look so scared. He should say something. “I love you, Papa, Mama,” he says, and Papa’s face twists. He’s crying too, Din realizes. 

“We love you too, little man,” Papa says, and the bunker door closes. 

Din stares at the door. Mama and Papa will come back to get him soon. This has to be like seek-the-hider, right? They’ll come back. He-

The ground shakes, much stronger than he remembers, and Din jumps. The bunker doors pop open a little and close again at the force of the blast. In the back of his mind, Din suddenly knows with a horrible certainty that Mama and Papa aren’t coming back. 

Something grabs the bunker door, and Din gasps. Maybe it’s Mama and Papa! Maybe that means this bad dream is-

No. It’s one of those big droids. The mean ones. It opens the door and points its arm at Din, and he suddenly remembers how this droid did the same thing to shopkeeper Lora. Does that mean he’s going to fall down and never get up? He doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to do that. 

Then the droid freezes, and there’s a new noise. A dull roar. The droid falls over and doesn’t get up, and behind it, there’s somebody else. A person covered head to toe in blue armor and a helmet that looks like it has a big T-shape on its front.

The person - Din’s rescuer - holds out their hand. “Come on,” they say. “It’s not safe here.”

Mama and Papa said not to leave unless they came back. But they aren’t coming back. So in gets up, and takes the stranger’s hand. 

Outside the bunker, there’s more strange blue people, and they’re all fighting the mean droids. The stranger carries Din, and the way they hug him reminds him of Papa. “You okay?” they ask.

Din nods. 

“Alright. Hold on,” they say, and suddenly, they’re flying. 

Din always thought he wanted to fly. But now that he’s up in the air, looking down at his village, he thinks he doesn’t really want to be in the sky. He doesn’t want to see his village like this, all wrong and broken and on fire. 

He makes a promise to himself. He’ll be like these blue strangers. He’ll become like them, and stop other villages from burning one day. 

“Who are you?” he tries to ask, but his voice gets lost in the wind. He tries again. 

“I’m a Mandalorian, kid,” the blue stranger replies.

So that’s what Din will be in the future, he promises himself. He’ll be the one who saves other kids. 

He’ll be the Mandalorian.

\--

**Then.**

After the talk with her masters, Rex and Cody, Ahsoka stays for a while on the _Resolute II,_ speaking with her masters.

“How do you feel?” she asks Anakin, and he understands what’s unspoken.

“Unbalanced,” he admits, and she looks at him in the Force, seeing how precariously balanced he is on the precipice between Light and Dark. 

She will never understand it, the struggle to stay aloft. Ahsoka knows that the Daughter’s legacy has helped to entrench her firmly in the Light. There’s constant reminder that she always sees, in the corner of her eye - a white-gold convor with beady eyes of jade, watching over her. It reminds her of the legends of the spirit guardians of Shili - of an animal that protected a Hunter and paved the way to safety.

 _We’ll catch you if you Fall, Master,_ she sends through their bond, and the smile he gives her is a little too forced. 

“Let’s hope it never comes to that,” he tells her. 

\--

They all sleep fitfully in the Jedi Temple, that night, a dark presence looming over Coruscant. The Jedi are uneasy, apprehension in the air. At _500 Republica,_ Padmé stares at the flowers of her case and fingers her blaster. She’d heard of Maul’s escape from Coruscant, but she’s still uneasy. There’s a bad feeling in her gut. 

\--

Obi-Wan dreams of Naboo. He’s a padawan, fighting an enemy with a double-bladed lightsaber. Then there’s pain, and a pyrrhic victory, and the flames of a funeral pyre. 

\--

Anakin finds himself back in the ruins of the Tusken camp, the screams still echoing in the Force. The sands shift, forming into a woman. 

She isn’t Ar-Amu. This woman feels powerful in such a way that it feels like corruption. Her presence in the Force is muddled and half-formless, like a crumbling statue of sand, and she speaks. Anakin realizes that she isn’t speaking to him.

This is a vision of someone long, long ago. 

“ _...was he always true to himself, no matter what personality he wore?_ _And there is something that the Council may never understand. That perhaps Revan never fell._ ”

Anakin’s breath catches. He’d heard of legends of this woman. He’d heard of the whisperings when the padawans would stay up and tell scary stories at night, stories of legends and heretics. This was Jedi Master Kreia, after her exile. “ _The difference between a fall and a sacrifice is sometimes difficult, but I feel that Revan understood that difference, more than anyone knew. The galaxy would have fallen if Revan had not gone to war. Perhaps he became the Dark Lord out of necessity, to prevent a greater Evil._ ”

As her figure collapses into the dunes of the desert, a sandstorm arises, and Anakin asks Ar-Amu why she had shown him the words of Darth Traya. 

He receives no answer. 

\--

In her dreams, Ahsoka finds herself back in the _Ase_ court, the Queen staring at her with pity in her kaleidoscope eyes. The Queen opens her mouth, her voice musical and lilting. “Do you know why your people fear the Wild Hunt, _Ashokah_?”

With all _Ase,_ questions are a trick. One must always be straightforward, yet must never agree with them, lest you be in their debt forever. “The clan elders believed that those who were condemned to join the hunt were to be hunted by the _Ase_ knights for eternity.” She stares into the Queen’s eyes, aware that at her back, the room is empty, with no _Ase_ knight or _Ase_ Courtmaster watching her from behind. “They believed that the _Ase_ knights would chase the condemned, and once they were caught, they would be skinned and gutted until dead, and the condemned would find themselves awakening in a new body, untouched, only for the Hunt to begin anew.”

The Queen smiles, her shining red lips glowing under the moonlight, and she bares her teeth. “Your elders have some wisdom, my Daughter. They are right to fear the fate of the Hunted, but their reasoning is wrong. Come, _Ashokah,_ look.” She gestures to the base of the throne, where an elderly Togruta appears, kneeling, anger in his eyes but radiating fear in the Force. “This one shall be punished by the Hunt.”

Part of Ahsoka cannot help but wonder if there is more to this dream - it feels like a vision. “What was his crime?” 

The Queen raises her hand, proclaiming judgement. “He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Her voice rings out across the empty Court, firm and unyielding, and the gleeful steel which belies the proclamation reminds Ahsoka that the _Ase_ are children of _Demo-ka_. Of demons. The elderly togruta howls, clawing at his face, and he begins to seize as his limbs begin to twist. 

“Trespassing on the Court?” Ahsoka asks. The scene before her is horrendous, and though she is aware this is a dream, she is certain that she will remember the man’s screams in her waking hours. 

She receives no answer to that question. Instead, the Queen replies, “Are you aware, Daughter, that our Knights do not hunt?”

Ahsoka’s blood runs cold as she understands the Queen’s words and realizes she recognizes the howl coming from the elderly Togruta’s throat. 

“My child,” the Queen says, and her voice is deceptively gentle as the smooth streams on a warm summer day, “the only hunters of Shili are the Togruta.”

To the side of the court, a doorway opens, and the suffering Togruta man lunges through to freedom. 

Only he is no longer a Togruta. He is an _akul_ , snarling in a hungry rage, and he flees into the forest as new sounds begin to intrude. The sounds of the Hunt. The familiar sounds of the Togruta hunters, of a clan, searching for an _akul_ to kill. 

“He was of their clan,” Ahsoka realizes, and the words feel like lead on her tongue. Her eyes fall back onto the Queen, who is watching with sorrow in her eyes so sharp that Ahsoka nearly flinches. 

“Beware, Daughter.” The Queen’s form begins to blur, indicating to Ahsoka that her vision is beginning to wane. She must be awakening soon. “You are of a clan as well. You are not immune to being Hunted.”

And Ahsoka snaps awake to the sound of the Temple shaking and screams reverberating through the Force.

By late morning, she is called with her master to investigate a bombing at the Jedi Temple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's important to note that despite having inherited the legacies of the Ones, the trio can't prevent every single tragedy in the galaxy. They aren't all-powerful. 
> 
> Other than starting differently, I imagine that Yoda's journey goes pretty much the same as it does in canon, so I won't be writing on it.
> 
> Up next: I know i've been lingering a lot in the 'now' to show many different stories unfolding at once. We'll start getting back to our main characters soon. 
> 
> And, well... you may have noticed how despite their power boost, Palpatine is keeping up with our heroes in the now and giving them quite a fight. Why is that?
> 
> We'll explore that in the next chapter.
> 
> I also made a new blog! Star Wars-centric. I'll post thoughts on the writing process there. You can find me at https://revenge-of-the-shit.tumblr.com/.
> 
> (Yeah, Sith is an anagram of shit.)


	12. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back then, the bombing of the Temple is something unfathomable that has occurred. As Ahsoka and Anakin investigate, they find themselves closer and closer to uncovering treachery within their ranks. 
> 
> In the Now, Jesse and his brothers struggle to survive as the assault on Senator Amidala's apartments continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update. In compensation, here's an extra-long chapter. This took a while, with me deleting and re-writing huge chunks of it. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Unbeta'd, as usual.
> 
> Warning for: violence, minor(?) character death, mentions of suicide.

**Then.**

The arrest of Letta Turmond is many things - harrowing, tense, and with high-stakes - but Ahsoka did not expect it to be heartbreaking. 

Letta had set up her own _husband_ to die. Who could possibly do such a thing?

And now she’s asking for Ahsoka. Asking for privacy, because she’s afraid of something. 

Everything in her senses tells her that this is a trap. That something is waiting to go wrong. But in the corner of her eyes, she sees a flash of white-gold, and she thinks she hears a comforting hoot from a convor that no-one else can see. 

_Go on,_ she says. Ahsoka isn’t sure how she knows that the convor is a she - but it feels right. _You will sense the danger._

And as Letta speaks, the Force is quiet. There is nothing but the soft murmur of the many prisoners in the detention center - nothing but Letta’s quiet anxiousness for the consequences of her actions. “The idea of feeding Jakar the nanodroids was not mine,” she confesses.

Ahsoka releases her irritation into the Force. Shifting the blame does little to alleviate Letta’s guilt - she was still responsible for murder. But Ahsoka needs to know. “Why are you saying this now? Why didn’t you reveal this before?”

“Because my life was in danger!” Letta exclaims, and the Force rings with truth. “The person behind this will be able to get to me unless you know the truth!”

“Yeah? What’s the truth?” A bounty hunter, perhaps? Ahsoka thinks of Cad Bane, perhaps - he is certainly dangerous enough to be feared and clever enough to engineer the bombing, but that doesn’t seem right. It’s not his style - he would have been the one to carry it out himself in a different manner.

Then Letta speaks, and Ahsoka recoils at her words. “A Jedi. A Jedi showed me how to create the bomb. And how to put the nanodroids in.”

A Jedi?

How? How could a Jedi possibly even _consider_ destroying a place as sacred as the Temple? How could a Jedi even consider the death of so many innocents? How could they disregard their core values-

The convor hoots. _Focus._ Ahsoka shakes her head, and turns her thoughts back to the investigation. “Why would a Jedi do this?” she asks.

“There are some citizens of the Republic like myself who believe the Jedi Order is not what it used to be. The Jedi have become warmongers. They’ve become military weapons, and they’re killing when they should be keeping the peace.” Letta paces restlessly, the Force around her turbulent with agitation, and part of Ahsoka stings. Letta’s statements aren’t entirely out of place. She whips around, her worry washing over Ahsoka’s senses. “One of these Jedi agreed with us. One of you wanted to make a statement. Who was willing to attack your own order to do it.”

Ahsoka remembers the story of General Krell - of how he betrayed his men - and she feels sick to the stomach. Another traitor. “Who?”

Letta’s anxiousness spikes, her eyes flicking back and forth in the room as if to try and find an intruder. Her voice trembles.“If you protect me, I will tell you - because it is obvious to me that I have been set up.”

Ahsoka presses down on her frustration. She can’t sense any malice nearby - and she needs to know. “Letta,” she snaps, “you have to tell me who is behind this!”

She needs to know. She needs to know. There is another traitor in the Temple, someone who could possibly target the place again, who could even harm the _younglings._ It's unacceptable.

Letta hesitates, and opens her mouth to speak. Ahsoka leans forward. “It’s-”

Then she senses it.

A surge of darkness, roiling and dangerous, intent to kill. 

“ _No!_ ” she shouts, and she throws her hands forward, pushing back the wave of Dark. It surges forward, bearing for Letta’s throat, reaching to kill, and a second surge appears, aiming to push her long enough to be distracted-

She shoves back, and just as suddenly, the presence disappears.

“What’s going on?” Letta’s voice is fearful. Ahsoka pays her no heed, falling deeply into the Force to try to locate the would-be assassin.

_There._

The presence is cloaked and well-hidden, shrouded in such a way that would make it very, _very_ easy to lose in the bustle that is the hundreds of thousands of people on the surface of Coruscant. But Ahsoka can sense it - already rushing away, moving towards the upper levels, where Ahsoka knows the assassin could blend in. 

“That Jedi you were going to name tried to kill you,” she snaps, and Letta’s breath hitches. Ahsoka raises her hand towards the camera, signaling the Coruscant guard, and she raises her hand to the comm. “Master, come in.”

In the Force, she can sense the urgency of the clones as they rush to the cell. As they move through the door, Anakin responds. “Ahsoka, what’s the problem?”

“Someone just tried to assassinate Letta with the Force,” she reports, half to the clones and half to Anakin. “I’m giving chase immediately - they’re heading towards the upper levels. I think they’re trying to lose themselves in the more crowded areas.”

“Be careful. I’ll track your comm and see if I can rendezvous with you,” Anakin replies, and the comm blinks out. 

She turns to Commander Fox, sensing the Force around him colouring with determination. “We’ll watch her, Commander,” he says, gesturing to Letta. Behind him, the woman is shivering, her terror palpable in the Force. “Good luck.”

She spares him a nod, then takes off, casting out her senses far throughout the building to find the would-be assassin. There’s no time for her to shake Letta out for more information - hopefully, Commander Fox will get it out of her.

They’re getting further away already, the presence moving to blend with the civilians. Doubt enters her mind. There are children and families here, moving about with their speeders or on foot. If Ahsoka were to confront the suspect, if they lashed out, unleashing the Dark Side against the unsuspecting crowd…

Something knocks against her abdomen and she gasps, tripping and falling to the floor as her legs knock against something metal. She shakes her head, trying to clear the ringing in her montrals, waving her hand at the irate R2-unit that she had run into carelessly. “Sorry,” she mutters, and the droid beeps something rude before wheeling away. 

_The suspect!_

Ahsoka scrambles to her feet, already falling into the Force to try and find the presence, but it’s too late. 

_Kriffing sith hells_. She’d lost them. 

Biting her tongue to avoid screaming in frustration, she comms Anakin. “Master, I’ve lost them.” 

The sting of failure bites at her. She clenches her fists, focusing on the feeling of her nails biting into her palms to ground her. They’ll catch the culprit. They will. They will. 

Her comm chimes. “Alright.” She can hear the frustration in his voice, but just as clearly, she can sense his reassurance through their bond. _It’s not your fault_. “I’m almost at the detention center - I’ll meet you at the front.” 

“Understood, Master,” she says, and hesitates. “I can go back to see if I can get-”

“No, Ahsoka.” Even though she can only hear his voice, she can picture his face, twisted in frustration at being at the Council’s beck and call. “We’ve been called to an immediate meeting with the Council.”

“Alright,” she says, and she turns off the comm as she casts out her senses again. 

It’s no use. With their shields up, it would be impossible to identify the suspect even if they were standing right in front of her. With another huff of frustration, she shakes her head, and heads to the entrance of the detention level. 

She catches her own reflection, then, in the transparisteel of one of the offices. The troopers inside aren’t looking up, and she’s immensely thankful for that, because she can see that her eyes are a shining green, green like the colour of life and green like the colour of jade. 

She blinks, and it fades, but she knows the truth. She needs to be more careful - she can’t afford to slip up and reveal the Daughter’s legacy to the rogue Jedi, or worse, to the Sith. 

There’s still something in the air - a foreboding feeling, a nervousness in her gut borne from the Force. She releases her anxieties into the Force. This is not the time to allow paranoia to cloud her judgement. 

\--

It’s… unnerving, to say the least, to be one of the soldiers guarding the halls that house someone who is a known target of a rogue Jedi. To Stone (if you try to call him CC-5869, he’ll _make sure_ you know that his name is _Stone_ and that he is not a _number_ ), he thinks it might be one of the most dangerous assignments he’s had yet. 

(And yes, that includes that mission with the pirates and with thrice-damned Representative Binks.)

He’s never seen the Jedi in action. He’d only seen the tail end of a confrontation, once, when he saw Generals Skywalker and Kenobi holding the Weequay pirates’ leader at saberpoint, and though he hadn’t seen them in active combat, he’d seen the way they had moved after. He’d seen the same thing, too, when he passed by the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, and he saw the Jedi moving up and down the steps. There was just something about it - their movements were a little _too_ smooth, a little _too_ sure. Once, he’d seen a tholothian Jedi whip her head around, and a second later, a tourist had tripped on the steps of the Temple. The tholothian Jedi had caught the tourist with hands that had already reached out, as if she knew it was going to happen the second before. 

But he’d heard stories from brothers who were on the front lines. Stories of Jedi being able to move fast enough to avoid and deflect blasterfire. Stories of Jedi and how their instincts were never wrong. Stories of how their mere presence could mean the difference between victory and death.

And he’s heard other stories, too. Of a Seperatist assassin with the same powers as the Jedi. Of how she wielded two lightsabers the colour of blood and how she once carved her way through an entire company of a hundred soldiers. Of how she moved like the wind and how she laughed as she stood knee-deep in bodies. 

It doesn’t exactly put a reassuring feeling in his gut when he thinks about how there’s maybe a dozen guards, tops, patrolling this sector of the detention center. 

Thankfully, there isn’t much happening. He patrols the hallway he’s been assigned to, occasionally peering into the cell of Letta Turmond.

She’d been quiet since the supposed assasination attempt. According to Commander Fox, nothing had seemed amiss, then suddenly, Commander Tano’s face had twisted and she had whirled, freezing in place before calling for help. 

Stone thinks about the stories of how the Separatist assassin had been able to crush the necks of soldiers from across the battlefield with a twist of her hands, and he wonders if that’s what almost happened to Turmond. No wonder she had become withdrawn. Any attempts to get information out of her had been met with a wide-eyed panic, and they had stopped trying soon enough.

There are two troopers in her cell at all times, hidden from the cameras and from the view of the door. The only sign of their existence comes during a guard change, when the troopers previously hidden emerge from the cell to be seen in the hallway. 

It’s a precaution taken to prevent someone from being strangled through a holofeed. The very possibility of it happening makes Stone feel nauseous. 

That’s horrifying. It’s _unnatural._ It shouldn’t exist. 

But it does. 

He sighs, shakes his head. Whatever. No use ruminating. It does nothing to help the situation - rather, it just works him up until he’s paranoid. Best to think about something else. 

“Psst.”

He freezes. He could have sworn-

He looks up, and nearly jumps a foot. There’s a masked figure there, watching him with a tilted head through the vents. And suddenly he can’t move, he can’t scream, there’s an invisible grip squeezing his throat and holding him still. _The rogue Jedi,_ part of him cries, and no matter how much he strains, he can’t lift his blaster or touch the comm. 

The figure waves their hand, and a young female voice speaks as what feels like a gentle blanket settles over his mind. 

It’s calm. Peaceful. His worries about the rogue Jedi wash away, and he wonders why he was even thinking about it in the first place. There’s nothing to worry about, nothing but what the figure is telling him. The grip on his body disappears. “You will kill Letta Turmond,” she says, her voice soothing.

“I will kill Letta Turmond,” he agrees. Of course he will. She killed Jedi, clones, and civilians in the blast. She deserves nothing less. This is justice. 

His guard shift is in less than half an hour, anyway. All he needs to do is wait until it’s his turn to watch the cell, then he can pull the trigger. 

But there’s more. The figure waves her hand again, and any doubts he has about her disappears with another soft fog that settles over his mind. “After you kill her, you will act horrified, and you will say that Tano mind-tricked you, before turning your blaster on yourself.”

That sounds about right. Of course - that’s how he will cover it up. He repeats the words, and the figure disappears from his view. 

Only half an hour to go. 

\--

When Anakin picks up Ahsoka from the detention center, she looks downcast. 

“Are you alright?” he asks. 

“I couldn’t catch them,” she mutters, and he understands. “I couldn’t even get a good enough read on them. They could be standing there and I wouldn’t even know it!” 

He was much the same as a padawan - anything that didn’t go the way he wished when he tried was met with disappointment and anger from himself. Over time, he’d learned that some things were beyond his control. That he wasn’t all-powerful. 

( _But I should be._ )

“It’s not your fault, Snips,” he tells her. The speeder lifts off and she buckles in, her eyes searching the ground for anyone suspicious. “When you’re dealing with someone who’s Fallen-” 

He cuts himself off, remembering the way she had reacted in the skies above Coruscant when she had watched the crimson lightning crackling from his hands. She’d hidden it well and she’d voiced her enthusiastic acceptance, even later going into detail about how she wished to see it used on Dooku (“see how he likes a taste of his own medicine,” she had said with a tad too much viciousness, and even Obi-Wan hadn’t reprimanded her), but Anakin had sensed her unease. 

Beside him in the speeder, she’s quiet.

“When you’re dealing with a rogue Jedi,” he tries again, “you can’t expect it to be easy.” His hands grip the wheel tightly. “I couldn’t even sense General Krell’s deception before he chose to reveal himself to me. You can’t blame yourself for something that’s beyond your control, my young padawan.”

Ahsoka doesn’t say anything about his hesitation, for which he’s grateful. “I know. I just thought that maybe - with the Daughter’s gifts-” 

“I know,” he says softly. His voice is lost in the wind whistling over the speeder, but she senses his thoughts, and he sees the smile through the corner of his eyes all the same. 

They lapse into a comfortable silence for the rest of the ride. 

(It takes twenty minutes for them to get to the Temple and go up the Council spire.)

\--

Since the start of the war, Mace has been nursing a headache that hasn’t ever truly gone away.

It comes from the shatterpoints. They shatter or smooth over as quickly as they form, a constant rumble of _here-there-here-there_ that forces Mace to hold his shields up tighter than usual at all times. He’s since gotten used to it - but it’s tiring. 

Skywalker is like a living example of the cause of Mace’s headaches. The Force swirls around him in such a way that no other Jedi can match - not even Master Yoda - and as such, more shatterpoints form and disperse around him compared to any other Jedi. That, combined with his occasional brashness and disrespect, makes him a pain in the arse to deal with at times. Mace does what he can to avoid being curt - it (partially) isn’t Skywalker’s fault - but there are days where it can be a test of patience. 

Thankfully, today is not one of those days… yet. 

But that isn’t much to be thankful for. The confirmation of a rogue Jedi - a Fallen one among them - causes far more of a headache than any of Skywalker’s antics. 

“Because of the confirmation of a rogue Jedi, effective immediately, you and Padawan Tano are removed from the case,” he tells them. Their indignation spikes in the Force, carefully hidden but there all the same. He releases his irritation into the Force - if he were a Knight or a Padawan, he’d feel the same. “It’s a matter of impartiality. All of us that were on-planet should not have been part of the investigation.”

The indignation subsides, though some remains. Skywalker inclines his head. “We understand, Master.”

“Master Allie will take over the investigation,” Mace continues. “She has just finished a campaign in the Outer Rim. In the meantime, all Jedi on Coruscant are on lockdown - per order of the military and the senate, none of us who were on-planet for the past two weeks may leave.”

It’s an order that has contributed to his headache. Tracking down all the Jedi who were on Coruscant and keeping tabs on them has been more tedious than anything he’s done before. What’s more, this means putting on hold a number of missions, such as Master Yoda’s retreat to Dagobah and the mission to thwart the plot against the chancellor, all of which were _supposed_ to be set into motion today, leaving the Council scrambling to reassign the important missions to off-planet Jedi. 

“And what about Letta?” Padawan Tano asks. “If she’s the target of a rogue Jedi, it would be best for there to be another Jedi guarding her.”

Master Yoda takes that question. “To another Jedi, returning from the Mid-Rim, that responsibility will fall.” 

“But what about the meantime?” Skywalker asks, brow furrowed. Mace had asked the same question, and the answer he had been given was dissatisfactory. 

Master Tiin gives the same answer nonetheless. “Security has been doubled in the meantime. It should take no more than an hour for Master Junda to return.”

It’s an hour for something to go wrong. Everyone in the room knows this. 

The shrill sound of a comm beeping cuts through the pensive silence of the room. Yoda answers it with the press of a button. “Yes?”

The hologram of Commander Fox emerges. Even from through a holocall, Mace can sense his unease, and he finds himself leaning forward in apprehension. The Force moves, a sense of foreboding rising within him. Then Commander Fox speaks, and Mace’s blood runs cold. “Letta Turmond has just been assassinated.”

Had this room been the senate chambers, it would have descended into immediate shouts and calls for justice. Instead, the room is silent, the temperature dropping as the Jedi in the room collectively experience the fear and dismay of the other members. It is released quickly into the Force, some faster than others. 

Then Commander Fox says another thing that makes the Force waver once more. “Commander Ahsoka Tano is to be arrested on suspicion of the death of Letta Turmond.”

Now _,_ there are shouts.

Padawan Tano’s cry of “ _What!?_ ” echoes through the room and through the Force, her shock and distress so clear and honest in the Force that Mace does not doubt for a second the truth of her sudden terror. 

Someone had just tried to frame her. This does not bode well. 

Similar cries echo from Skywalker and Kenobi, and (perhaps not too surprisingly) Master Koon, who clutches at his seat for a brief second before releasing his emotions into the Force. “That is impossible, Commander Fox,” the Kel Dor says, voice calm and edged with steel. Fox had since turned around in surprise, unaware that there were more members in the Council room than he’d expected, and that one of them was the accused. “She has been in our company at the time Turmond was killed, presuming it has happened very recently, and prior to this, she was in the company of Knight Skywalker.”

There’s a nudge in Mace’s mind - a small poke from Master Yoda, telling him to _look._

He does. He looks at Knight Skywalker, looks at Padawan Tano, and sees-

( _-eyes of jade, green as the summer grass-_ )

( _-eyes of gold, yellow as the poisons found on Dathomir_ -)

-a Knight and a Padawan, openly offended and afraid of the implications of the accusation.

He grits his teeth. Now is not the time to be worrying about such things he _might_ be seeing. He stores this knowledge for later consultation in his mind, and he returns to the situation at hand. 

Commander Fox’s hologram has turned to Padawan Tano, accusation and anger clear in his body language. “Shock trooper Stone was mind-tricked into killing Turmond.” His voice, too, is calm, yet laced with venom. “The moment after he pulled the trigger, his words were, ‘Tano mind-tricked me!’” 

“That’s not true!” Padawan Tano shouts. There’s hysteria in her voice, high-pitched with incredulity, and Mace remembers with a start that she is only sixteen years old. She’s a child who’s seen more war than any adult should see in a lifetime. “If we talk to Trooper Stone-”

“We can’t!” Fox’s voice is scathing, and underneath the venom, Mace senses a deep well of grief. The Force sings with foreboding as multiple shatterpoints begin to form in front of his eyes - on Padawan Tano, on Knight Skywalker, on Master Yoda, on Commander Fox, on Master Kenobi. His headache begins to intensify again. “Trooper Stone is dead. He turned his blaster on himself afterwards.” 

Commander Tano goes pale, gaping wordlessly. Her emotions are raw in the Force, bleeding through the shields of a senior padawan and baring themselves for everyone to see. Perhaps - no, it is likely - that if Mace had not been there to see her initial reaction, he would have doubted her innocence. 

He does not doubt it now - the sheer level of terror and offense he senses from her is impossible to fake honestly for a padawan. What is more, Mace remembers how she had reported on the chips in the clones and her concise procedural suggestions for the chip removal. If she had wanted to strike at the Temple, she would have left the chips unnoticed.

A second hologram appears - Captain Tarkin. Mace clenches his jaw. Tarkin has always been a vocal critic of the Jedi - and with his power in the military, he has also been the source of too many headaches when dealing with legislation. 

Mace has also long suspected that Tarkin holds… prejudices against non-humans. The way he leers at Padawan Tano makes his skin crawl, and when he speaks, the Force recoils - his words are smooth and slimy, as cunning and dangerous as a serpent. “Masters Jedi,” he says, and Mace grasps his own irritation with Tarkin and shoves it near-violently at the Force to prevent snapping at the Captain. “I trust there will be no issue taking Padawan Tano into custody? Surely, with the presence of so many of you, there will be no challenge.”

He speaks as though Padawan Tano isn’t in the room. She is frozen in fear, trembling so hard even Mace can see it from where he sits, and there is a spike of anger from Skywalker. He opens his mouth, as if to speak.

Then his jaw snaps shut, thankfully. Mace spares a moment to thank the Force that Skywalker is using his head and not escalating the situation. 

(He doesn’t notice Obi-Wan in his chair, hand slightly raised and clenched in a fist as if he were holding something shut with the Force, and he doesn’t see how Obi-Wan’s eyes are alight with a blue-green flame. He doesn’t sense how Skywalker is suddenly unable to speak, his voice and tongue held still by a telekinetic grip. He doesn’t hear the words that Skywalker and Tano hear through their bonds.

 _Control yourselves, or you will reveal us. We need to tread carefully._ )

“There is no issue,” Obi-Wan replies. “We can sense the truth in the Force - she is innocent of the crime. What is more, we can speak personally to her character - I do not believe she is capable of such an abhorrent act.”

“What you feel or sense is irrelevant in the face of evidence, General.” Tarkin waves his hand in dismissal. “I was under the impression that the Jedi prided themselves on not allowing their emotions to cloud their judgment. Unless…” The Force swirls, and a new shatterpoint forms on Captain Tarkin. “Unless the Order wishes to obstruct the investigation?”

They can’t. The refusal to hand over Padawan Tano into military custody would destroy the fragile shatterpoint, and would give Tarkin and the senate the excuse to take partial control of the Council - and by extension, the Order. Mace grasps his emotions and releases it into the Force, allowing it to take his anxieties and frustrations.

He braces himself for backlash from several Jedi in the room. “No, we do not,” he says curtly. “We will cooperate, Captain Tarkin.”

As Tarkin cuts the comm along with Commander Fox, the Force explodes into turmoil.

“ _How could you do this?_ ” 

“We should stand by Ahsoka-!”

“Master Windu, I must disagree-”

“We should not-”

“This is outrageous! It’s unfair-”

“ENOUGH!”

The room falls into silence as Yoda raises his voice, leaving every one of them feeling as though they are once again chastised younglings. Even so, Mace can sense Skywalker seething, his anger barely controlled. Under better control is the indignancy of Obi-Wan and Plo, yet, it is palpable enough to be felt in the room. 

“Believe in you, we do, Ahsoka,” Yoda continues gently. “Your honesty, we sense. Yet tied, our hands are. If refuse to obey the senate, we decide, as opposition, they will take it, and an opportunity, this may create, for officials such as Tarkin to remove our autonomy.”

“This could mean the difference between being able to help our men in battle and being removed from command,” Mace adds. “Captain Tarkin has long been critical of Jedi involvement in the war - opposition on our part would give him and the senate leverage to introduce legislation to push us out. What’s more, it would give them an opportunity to interfere with future Jedi matters under the pretense of supervision. This incident could easily sway the public opinion of the Jedi, which is already wavering.”

It irritates him - Tarkin has long since voiced his criticisms of the Jedi as Generals, often stating his view that the Jedi should not be in command positions. What irks him is that Tarkin is right - to a degree. But experience has taught Mace that many officials in the Republic military do not view the clones as human, and that is something he cannot allow his men to suffer through. 

Skywalker’s anger flares, then it fades, pulled behind his shields as he fights to bring it under control. His anger does not disappear - rather, it hides behind shields which seem to be made of a (blue-green) mist, present but unable to be seen. 

It is a difficult choice to choose between his padawan and his men. Mace imagines himself in those shoes - being forced to choose between siding with Depa, or siding with his men - and he grinds his teeth. 

“No.” 

Mace turns his head in surprise as Padawan Tano steps forward. She is afraid, the tremor in her voice audible, but Mace can sense her trying to release her fear into the Force. He can also sense where her thoughts are turning to - to her captain, to her soldiers, to her men. Her words speak of maturity worthy of a Jedi Knight, and he notes to himself that once this ordeal is over and her name is cleared, the Council should strongly consider Knighting her. 

“I will surrender to- to Jedi custody,” she manages. 

Skywalker steps forward, a hand reaching out as if to stop her. “Ahsoka, no-”

“Let me do this!” she snaps, and he recoils at the strength of her words. Her hands drop to her belt, reaching for her lightsabers, and she hands them to her master. “For our men. For all of our men.”

The Force murmurs around her, shining with a Light untainted by Darkness. 

(Mace blinks, and for a moment - just a short moment - he swears he can see a convor of white-gold, cooing in encouragement on Padawan Tano’s shoulder. He blinks again, and it is gone.)

“Very well.” Yoda stands, and with the press of a button, the doors to the Council chambers open to reveal two Temple guards. “For your courage, commend you, we do. Stand by you, to the best of our ability, the Order will.” 

\--

When Anakin arrives at the _500 Republica,_ Padmé can see the stress in the posture. 

She assumes it’s from Maul’s escape. The report of the renegade Sith Lord’s escape from custody had put the entirety of the Naboo delegation on edge. Even the Chancellor had commed her personally. “This is worrying, milady,” he had said, concern in his eyes. “Do take care. I cannot bear the thought of anything happening to you.” 

She had felt a spark of warmth, then, for her mentor. It was unlikely for either of them to be targeted specifically, but it was impossible to know the thoughts of a Sith Lord. “You too, Chancellor. I hope they will catch him soon.” 

“I agree,” he had said. “But I must wonder why the Jedi wish for his true identity to be hidden.”

The public advisory warning had flashed across her holopad hours earlier. _Warning. Considered armed and dangerous. Do not approach. Notify Coruscant Police if there is information._ In it was no mention of Maul’s identity as a Sith.

“I’m sure there is good reason for their decision,” she had replied. She could understand the value of not revealing Maul’s identity - labelling him as armed and dangerous should be enough to heighten people’s caution and to prevent too much panic. As such, she hadn’t spoken out and revealed his identity. 

“Of course, of course,” Palpatine had agreed. “I just worry for the people.”

Poor man. The war had aged him, and as it had worn on, his shoulders had seemed to slowly sag in the months it continued. She felt a pang of sympathy - his task was no easy one. “Don’t pressure yourself too much, Chancellor. You mustn't stress so much.”

The smile he had given her was weary, and they had chatted some more before they both went back to work. 

Then news had arrived that Maul had escaped Coruscant. It was met with mixed reception - on one hand, she was very worried of the repercussions of him on the loose in the galaxy once more, yet on the other hand, part of her was secretly glad that she did not have to worry about him showing up at her doorstep. 

And the events had not let up. The next day, the Temple had been bombed. Padmé assumes that’s why Anakin looks so stressed. “Ani,” she says, and he rushes into her arms, burying his face in her shoulder. 

“I’ve missed you,” he mumbles.

They stand like that for a moment, lost in each other’s embrace - there is nothing in the moment, no war, no Sith, nothing but the warmth of the other’s hug and the gentle breath of the other. 

Then Ani releases his grip, and when she looks into his eyes, he looks scared. “Padmé, I need your help.”

She rubs his arms, trying to soothe him. “What is it?”

“Ahsoka has been accused of being the one behind the Temple bombing,” he says, and she can’t help the gasp that escapes her. “She’s being held in custody as we speak. I- I’m not- I don’t know what to do.”

He sounds so helpless. Padmé’s heart aches - not just for Anakin, but also for the young Togruta that, in another life, she would have considered as her own daughter. “I’ll do what I can,” she promises, but she doubts herself. As a Senator, she has little jurisdiction over military and court matters. 

“That’s all I ask,” he whispers, and they savor the short moment they can spend together. 

\--

Ahsoka is released into military custody. 

It makes sense, she supposes. If she were in Jedi custody, the rogue Jedi would probably have an easier time reaching her and getting away. In military custody - in cells designed to hold Force-sensitives - she can still reach the Force, but there are no buttons that can be easily pressed, no vents to crawl through, no control panels she can crush with the Force. 

Something catches her eye - a key card, resting outside her cell. 

“A key card?” she mutters. Perhaps Anakin…?

She gets no further with her thoughts. A flash of white-gold, invisible to the naked eye, flies in front of her, blocking her view of the key card and hooting in protest. The convor. 

She frowns. The convor has never led her wrong - and though it was a passive presence, never directly interfering, she had always believed that the convor was a possible manifestation of the Daughter in the Cosmic Force. “Is it a trick?” she asks quietly. 

The convor bobs its head, and her blood runs cold. Someone - the rogue Jedi - must be going great lengths to set her up. She isn’t safe here, and-

The guards! If the rogue Jedi had been able to leave a key card here, what would have happened to the guards?

She leaps from her seat, waving frantically at the camera. “ _Hey!_ ” she shouts. “Guard!” 

Moments later, klaxons sound throughout the detention block as bodies are found in the halls. 

\--

“All evidence points to someone trying to set Padawan Tano up,” says Commander Fox. 

The cameras had been sliced into - footage of the halls and of her cell had been deleted for an hour. A key card had been found outside Padawn’s Tano cell, indicating possible escape, but other factors pointed to otherwise. 

Two factors, specifically. One, the logs of the key card and the cell lock both indicated no use since Tano had been moved to the cell. The logs are something that is not known to the public. Everyone knows a detention block has cams and sound recordings - it’s in every crime holodrama there is. That’s unavoidable. But the presence of the key card logs is something else entirely. 

Second, the presence of Tano’s lightsabers and a comm, found two hallways away from her cell, indicate that she was not behind this attack. 

Commander Fox tells all this to an unimpressed Captain Tarkin. “Is it possible that she left behind the materials and locked herself back in the cell to avoid suspicion?” the Captain asks. 

Fox doesn’t- doesn’t _hate_ Tarkin, not really, but something about the man’s oily voice and arrogant posture makes Fox want to be serving under anyone but him. “Highly unlikely, sir,” he says. It chafes - he’s a Commander and Tarkin is a Captain. But Fox knows Tarkin’s views on clones and his ruthless persistence in making their lives hell because he thinks they’re less than human, as well as his power in the senate. So Fox grits his teeth and plows forward. “The lightsabers and comm were completely cleaned of fingerprints as if to avoid suspicion and identification. Padawan Tano would have left fingerprints. It also makes no sense for her to break out and injure our men for no reason.” 

Tarkin hums, then waves his hand. “Regardless, this does not exonerate her from the allegations raised by CC-5869 before his death. You may transfer her to a different cell block in the meantime.” 

Stone, not CC-5869. Fox’s brother’s _name_ was Stone. He says none of that out loud - instead, he manages a clipped, “Yes, sir!” that thankfully has Tarkin leaving the place, clearly thinking that he’s done with the situation at hand. 

Bastard. 

Fox saw the way Tarkin turned his nose at every non-human. The man is so xenophobic towards anything he thinks is non-human that it’s a kriffing wonder how he managed to stay in office. It really, _really_ does not bode well for Padawan Tano - even if she is innocent (which Fox is beginning to think she really is - he regrets his earlier emotional outburst) - she has to suffer through the scrutiny of a powerful man who wants to find error in anything she’s ever done simply because she isn’t human. 

Quietly, he saves the key-card logs - along with pictures of the finger-print free evidence - on a separate data card. It wouldn’t do if the evidence was erased - be it by the actual culprit or by a haughty official who just wanted to take out his xenophobia on someone else.

He wonders who he could submit the copy of the evidence to. The Council? Unclear. He’ll keep it on himself for now.

Just in case. 

\--

The Chancellor is busy at his desk, pouring over legislation and documentation, when Anakin walks in. He’s incredibly grateful for Palpatine - the Chancellor had sent him a short message hours earlier, asking of his well-being in regards to the Temple bombing situation, and wishing him well. Anakin had replied with a request to meet, and the Chancellor had agreed, worry clear in his messages. 

“Anakin!” The Chancellor looks up from his desk, pushing aside the holograms he had been pouring over. “Come in, come in.”

The Chancellor’s office is quiet in the Force, filled with the lingering presences of the many delegates that have come in and out for meetings. Lately - particularly during the war - Anakin has noticed an increase in lingering stress and anger as senators and planetary leaders became more and more on edge. At Palpatine’s desk, the Force feels tired, the weight of a man trying to fight a war heavy in the air. 

(There’s something else, too, something he can’t quite recognize. But he pays no mind to it.)

“Thank you for agreeing to see me on such a short notice, Chancellor,” Anakin says. And it was a short notice - he’d only asked to meet a few hours ago, and the Chancellor had set aside his time for a quick conversation. 

“Of course.” Palpatine stands, the Force around him murmuring with a gentle concern. “Are you alright? You sounded quite distressed in our communications.”

And there - right there - is something that Anakin has always appreciated about Palpatine. The Council hadn’t even asked about Anakin or Ahsoka’s well-being at all. “My padawan was taken into custody for a crime she didn’t commit,” he says, and his fists clench. “She’s accused of murder and of conspiring to bomb the Temple. But it’s impossible! I know she would never do something like that.”

“My goodness!” Palpatine exclaims. His presence is radiating shock, then concern, and part of Anakin feels guilty for burdening Palpatine with yet another problem. But the Chancellor presses forward. “And what of the Council? Surely, they fought for her?”

Not enough. 

He admits to himself that he’s not being fair, not really, with the Council. Their hands are tied. And yet, a small voice in the back of his head whispers, _were they ever really fair with you?_

He voices his thoughts out loud. “Not enough,” he snarls. “They should have defended her more.” 

“I am deeply sorry, Anakin.” Palpatine’s voice is sympathetic. He puts a hand on Anakin’s shoulder, and for a moment, Anakin wonders if this is what it must be like to have a grandfather. He’d never known his biological grandparents, of course. They were long gone, sold to someone before his birth. “I would have thought the Council would go to greater lengths to protect their own. Unfortunately, I am no Jedi, and I cannot speak to their motivations - strange as they may seem to me.”

Palpatine is right - as usual. The warmth that Anakin usually feels when he speaks with his mentor, though, is gone, lost in his worry for Ahsoka. He’s glad to have someone who makes him feel seen - who makes him feel valid. 

He feels guilty, sometimes, when he’s with the Chancellor. It’s a wonder how Palpatine has managed to put up with the… _whining_ , for lack of better term, yet he has always been receptive and nothing but helpful. “All the Council offered was advice to release our anxieties and to trust in the Will of the Force,” Anakin scoffs. “As if that would give us peace of mind.”

“Peace of mind? While your Padawan is wrongfully accused?” Palpatine asks, his voice incredulous. He shakes his head. “Pardon my outburst, Anakin. I simply question - what do they expect when one close to you could be facing undeserving consequences?”

Anakin bites his tongue. It wouldn’t do to swear in front of the Chancellor. “I- don’t know.”

He feels helpless. He can’t believe that he ever thought of Tarkin as an ally. He saw the way Tarkin leered at Ahsoka. In his eyes was the same glint Anakin had seen in the eyes of slave masters who wanted to relish in their slaves’ pain just because they could. 

“May I speak bluntly?” The Chancellor asks. At Anakin’s nod, Palpatine continues, “I do not mean to offend, but it feels very unfeeling on the part of the Council to instruct you to simply…” He waves his hands, searching for words. “...be at peace with such a decision. To worry over something like this is _human_ , Anakin. To advise you to trust in the Force, as if it were possible be at peace within your mind while your student is accused, to simply stand aside while your friend is in trouble… well, that possibility is simply a lie.”

Something about Palpatine’s words tickles the back of Anakin’s mind. Of course - criticism of the Council will always make Anakin feel a little guilt, no matter how much he thinks he deserves it. He pushes back the feeling, marveling a little at how the Chancellor always seems to know what to say. He feels a surge of warmth again for his mentor and sighs. “Thank you, Your Excellency.” 

Palpatine shakes his head. “No, my boy. It is only right that you have someone who can listen to you.” 

They talk for most of the next fifteen minutes. It’s relaxing being in the company of a mentor - though Obi-Wan and Padmé listen to him, there are sometimes words that Palpatine is able to offer that makes Anakin feel more… visible. More valuable. 

It crosses his mind, once, to confide in Palpatine about the chips. Then he remembers the Chancellor’s signature on the document approving the presence of the chips and his stomach twists, and he holds his tongue. 

(There’s something strange about the office, too. Something strange in the Force. Anakin puts it down to the lingering presence of the past delegates who have visited, but it’s something more. Something darker. 

Perhaps a bug? Perhaps that’s why the Force is telling him there’s something off.

Maybe he should come back here later - to check. After all, the decorations around the office cast long shadows.)

\--

During the transfer to a different cell - for both Ahsoka’s security and the security of the guards - Commander Fox slips something into her hands as he removes the cuffs. 

“Evidence of innocence,” he whispers to her. “I’m sorry for doubting you, Commander.” 

He’s positioned in such a way that his body subtly blocks the view of the security cam. She tilts her head the slightest fraction, giving him a nod, and he moves away with the other guards to leave her alone in the cell. 

She curls up on the bench that doubles as a bed, using the Force to quietly place the datachip in a hidden pocket in her belt. 

\--

It takes Anakin hours to fall asleep that night, his mind racing through the different laws Padmé had drawn up in their search to help Ahsoka. Without enough evidence, she would have to be released within three days following a questioning, and thankfully, Padmé had pulled enough strings to hire a good lawyer. 

It should all work out. Hopefully.

When Anakin finally does fall into his dreams, he sleeps fitfully. Images rise up in an unrelenting wave - the Citadel, Mortis, Geonosis, Tatooine, blurring together as he tumbles through the images. 

Then the ground is beneath his feet, and he opens his eyes to find himself in Mos Espa.

(He’s not really here, of course.) 

It’s the same as he remembers. The markets, the slave quarters, the shops, all of them the same shape and form and covered with the god-forsaken _sand._

(Really, why did he have to dream about sand? In the part of his mind that’s aware that this is a dream, he decides that anything with sand should classify as a nightmare.)

In his dream, Mos Espa is empty, devoid of life. It isn’t abandoned - rather, it feels as though every single life-form had just disappeared, leaving behind traces of their presence. There’s still food on the plates in the cantina, drinks displayed behind the bar, and footprints left in the sand that are quickly being covered by the swirling stands. There’s a storm approaching. 

Anakin’s feet carry him to his old quarters. It feels wrong - it’s eerily silent like the rest of Mos Espa. It should be bustling with life, filled with the many slaves who made a home for themselves with the little they had. It should be ringing with the whispered stories of Ekkreth and the ways he became free. A part of Anakin wonders about Kitster, about Seek and Melee and Wald and Amee. He wonders if they’re free. 

A part of him feels guilty. He’d promised to go back and free them. He’s a Jedi now, a Jedi with the legacy of the Son, and he hadn’t even gone back to check on them the two times he had been back to Tatooine. 

The door to his old quarters feels shorter than he remembers. Of course - he’s grown much since then. He steps inside, and finds his mother sitting at the table. 

Not Shmi. This isn’t Shmi, though it looks like her, with the hair held in a bun and the laugh lines crinkling the edge of her eyes. This mother takes the form of Shmi Skywalker, but she’s made of the swirling sands, each movement of her feet not a step but a shift in the grains swirling around the ground. When she opens her eyes, they are entirely a soft brown, the whites and irises the same colours as the dunes of the desert. 

_Anakin,_ she says, and her voice is both silent and a thunderclap, heard in his mind and in the grains of sand whirling outside the quarters. _Ekkreth._

“Ar-Amu,” he replies. All-Mother _._

The desert blooms around him, but his limbs feel cold. He looks down to see himself standing in the shadow of the table, his feet dissolving into the shadows and merging with the ground. 

“Why is this happening, Mother?” he asks. “Why am I here?”

Ar-Amu’s mouth does not open when she speaks. _Do you know your purpose, my Son?_

He thinks he does. Chosen One. Prophesied destroyer of the Sith. Jedi General, capable of turning the tides of battle. 

But that is not what Ar-Amu is looking for. 

“The Slave who makes free,” he tells her again.

Ar-Amu smiles and something in Anakin twists. He hadn’t seen the smile of Shmi Skywalker in long, long years - to see it again, even if it is not really her, ignites a bittersweet feeling that’s hard to push away. _Do you understand your purpose, my child?_

He remembers Obi-Wan’s presence after Mortis, a towering grey that is solid and unwavering and _balanced,_ neither Light nor Dark, but the middle. 

He thinks back to the words of Kreia, shown to him in his last dream. _Perhaps Revan became a Dark Lord out of necessity, to prevent a greater Evil._

On Mortis, Obi-Wan had told him of how the Son was both Sith and not Sith, just as how the Daughter wielded the Light and yet was not a Jedi. 

On Mortis, the Father had called himself and his children a Family in Balance. 

In the classes at the Temples, Yoda had taught the Jedi of how the Dark Side was like a chain. “Enslave you to your emotions, it will,” he had said. “Over yourself, great control, you must have, if you are to resist its grip.”

_The Slave who makes free._

Bitterness surges up within him, holding him in a cold grip. “Is that my fate, then?” he asks. “To be the Dark that balances out the Light of the Order?”

 _You are to bring balance,_ Ar-Amu says. _Passion, death, and Darkness have place in the universe. Left unchecked, they become corruption. They become unbalanced. They become Depur Depuran._

Unsaid are the words, _They become Sith._

“So that is my purpose,” he says. “To destroy that which corrupts the Dark, and to embody what the Dark should be.” 

_Child of the desert, your road is long and filled with hurdles._ Ar-Amu’s form begins to crumble, her fingertips and hair falling to the floor in a cascade of sand. _The path of the Chosen One is never a simple one. But you are not alone._

Outside, the skies of Mos Espa are darkening as the twin suns begin to set. The shadows cast in Anakin’s old quarters grow longer, bathing him in darkness, coldness setting in deep in his bones. “But how am I to destroy the Sith if we don’t even know who the Master is?”

Ar-Amu smiles, wordless, and the sky darkens. Her form crumbles into nothingness, leaving behind nothing but the holocron he had seen before in his dreams. He reaches out and pushes, and it opens, the blue figure of the holocron staring up into Anakin’s eyes. 

“Chosen One,” he says. 

“Revan,” Anakin greets in return. 

They stand in silence, the Chosen One of the Galactic Republic and the ‘Chosen One’ of the Old Republic, before Revan breaks it with words Anakin did not expect.

“You did not heed my words, Son of the Force.” 

Anakin bites his tongue, fighting back a remark that would be sure to anger the Sith. “And what advice would you have me heed?” he asks instead. 

Revan tilts his head, as if searching Anakin for something indiscernible. “You asked for knowledge,” he says finally, and his voice is filled with contempt. “You did not use it.” 

“Well, why don’t you enlighten me?” Anakin quips back. 

Revan laughs, harsh and condescending, and the sound echoes in the small space of the slave quarters. His answer is a question, infuriatingly cryptic and indirect. “Tell me, Chosen One, what do the Sith crave most?” 

What is he playing at?

“Power,” Anakin answers carefully.

“Indeed.” Revan clasps his hands behind his back, staring up at Anakin. “It was power that caused my Fall. The Dark Side offers power for power’s sake. Once you crave it - once you covet it - the desire to seek power never leaves your being.” 

“But you were redeemed.” The words fall from Anakin’s mouth before he’s aware of them, born from his knowledge of the legends whispered by padawans in the Temple. Heresy and tall tales, the Jedi Masters had said of the stories, yet the padawans had whispered them all the same. 

The holocron pulses, red flashing into a bright blue, then into a pure white.

“I was. The Jedi Council removed my memories of Darkness, and from then, I became a Jedi once more,” Revan says, and Anakin feels a chill run down his back.

He’d Fallen too, on Mortis, and the Father had removed his memory of the time and brought him back to the light.

He’s too much like Revan for his liking. 

“Yet they did not erase the true desire for power.” The words of Revan continue, washing over Anakin in an unrelenting wave. “Eventually, I was reminded of my past as a Dark Lord - and for the remainder of my days, I walked the precipice. It tore me asunder. Are you able to walk this same path, Son of the Force?”

Is he?

_Am I?_

He doesn’t know. 

He’d lost control on Umbara. He’d only come back to himself when he sensed the revulsion from Rex, and even then, he hadn’t been able to truly come back until Obi-Wan had reigned him in. 

Since then, he’d been around Obi-Wan more often than not, the other man’s Force-presence always in the back of Anakin’s mind, serving as a tether to keep him grounded lest he become unhinged again. He’d nearly snapped at the Council when they had tried to take Ahsoka into custody - Obi-Wan had held him back, his grip in the Force snapping Anakin’s mouth shut and his blue-green fog settling into Anakin’s mind to help keep him steady. 

He fears what he will do if Obi-Wan is not there. 

“If you have a tether to hold onto, you can control your hatred and your anger.” Revan’s tone turns wistful. “I have seen it done before.”

Anakin knows that he has many tethers to hold on to. 

Obi-Wan.

Ahsoka. 

Rex. 

_Padmé._

He stares at Revan, and speaks with resolution. “Then I will walk the path as the Force wills it.”

“Good.” The holocron pulses, flashing back into a glowing crimson.

Anakin hesitates. There’s a question at the tip of his tongue, waiting to come out, but he’s unsure if he should reveal his ignorance of the current Sith Master’s identity to a former Sith. 

But is this a vision of a true Revan? Or is this but an echo of who he once was?

He takes a gamble, and asks. “But what about the Sith Master?”

There is silence, and for a moment, he thinks he’s kriffed up. He’d just admitted a weakness to a former Dark Lord, kriff, _kriff-_

Then, Revan holds out his hands, palms up, as if he is proving something, and the Force surrounding the holocron pulses with urgency and sincerity. “In my time, the most vile and dangerous of Sith held great power - enough to nearly cheat death. He sought to engineer a war to increase his strength.” His hands move, spreading outwards. “He was a powerful manipulator, and he saw everyone else as but a pawn to advance his power. When I discovered his identity, I was arrogant, and he saw through my plans and twisted my mind to complete my Fall. Do not make the same mistake.”

Around Revan, the Force pulses with memory of a foreign power and malice bending his mind and warping it to another’s will. Anakin catches but an echo of the memory, the presence of the ancient Sith Emperor making him recoil in revulsion. 

Other than the cheating death part, Anakin thinks wryly, he can see the similarities between the old Sith and the current Sith Master. Puppetmaster, engineer of wars, powerful. But there is more to this than it seems - he’s still finding too many similarities between himself and Revan, and it wouldn’t do for him to start sympathizing with a _Sith_ , redeemed or not _._ “And how does this matter to what’s happening now?” he demands.

Revan drops his hands, head tilted, and he speaks with an inquisitive voice that sounds more threatening than anything he’s said before. “Tell me, Chosen One,” he says again, “who is the most powerful being on your side of the war?”

Anakin’s immediate answer is a Jedi. Master Yoda, surely, or Master Windu. Or Obi-Wan, probably, with the gifts of the Father. Maybe even Ahsoka, with how she can raise people from near-death. 

(Or himself.)

As if sensing Anakin’s thoughts, Revan shakes his head, disappointment leaking into the Force. “There is more to power than prowess in battle and in the Force,” he says, and his image flickers. The world begins to spin, the sands on the floor beginning to rise as Anakin feels the vision dissolving. “True power is found in those who enact and embrace change, who do not compromise for their goals.” 

The sands spin and spin and spin, rising to obscure Revan’s image and biting at Anakin’s skin. The world tilts, then turns, and Anakin falls into nothingness, flailing with no ground beneath his feet, and like before, he reaches for the memories of gargoyle wings-

The vision ends when Anakin’s eyes fly open with a gasp, panting as though he has just been in battle, and when he looks at his shadow on the walls of his quarters, it is larger than it should be.

\--

In one of the cells of the detention center, Ahsoka’s eyes fly open after a sudden awakening from a restful sleep. 

The shadows in her cell twitch, and in the corner of her eyes, she can hear the convor, hooting in distress.

“Anakin,” she whispers, and she reaches across their bond. 

There’s nothing but confusion and turmoil, and she knows without a doubt that he has just had another vision. 

_You can’t help him now,_ the convor hoots. _Not yet._

\--

Obi-Wan wakes to turmoil raging in the Force. 

Groggily, he rises from his bed, and walks to Anakin’s room. 

(He’s not fully corporeal, but he’s too tired to care and too worried to try and put too much effort into it.

He doesn’t realize that he didn’t use the door to go in-between the rooms.)

“Anakin?” he asks. “Are you alright?”

Dimly, Obi-Wan notes how he’s not the only one that isn’t fully corporeal. Anakin’s body is half-melted into shadow, flickering between reality and the red-black in the Force. 

Anakin turns to face him, his face half-shadow and half-solid, and he pins Obi-Wan with a gaze. “Obi-Wan,” he says slowly, and when he speaks, his mouth splits open to his ears, “who is the most powerful being on the side of the war?”

A strange question. 

“What type of power do you mean?” At this, Anakin tilts his head, and Obi-Wan presses on. “Physical power in battle? Strategic power in a tactician? Political power in the Senate?”

At the last words of his questions, Anakin stiffens, and the Force around him _snarls_ , coils of anger and fear snapping around the room. 

It doesn’t go much further than the door to the room before Obi-Wan gathers it in and presses it back. “Be _careful,_ ” he snaps. 

With visible effort, Anakin reigns in his emotions, his eyes tight. “Sorry,” he says, but Obi-Wan can tell he isn’t. He’s using the same tone he used above Umbara - light, charming, with an undercurrent of danger waiting to be released. He waves his hand. “I need to check on something. Don’t worry, I’ll be back.”

“Are you certain?” Obi-Wan asks. He moves forward. “Anakin, don’t be reckless-”

And without warning, the Force surges and Obi-Wan finds himself thrown backward. He lands on his feet, stunned. Did Anakin just-

When he looks up, Anakin is no longer there, having melted into the shadows. 

\--

**Now.**

_You can't change everything._

\--

The smoke is thick and suffocating in the _500 Republica._ The floor, once covered in shining marble, is now scorched and blackened, the consequence of blaster marks and oil fires caused by the hectic fighting. The doors, once a heavily decorated wood, are blasted to irreparable pieces, the couches in the waiting room scratched and burned, and the steps of the veranda have crumbled into the lower levels of Coruscant. 

There’s blessed silence - for the moment being, at least. The fighting is over for now, bodies strewn all around and over the entrance of Senator Amidala’s suite. Jesse’s blasters are holstered for the time being - he works in tandem with his remaining brothers, clearing away the bodies of their fallen brothers of the Coruscant Guard and of the 501st. They’re laid in one of the guest rooms which has been turned into a temporary morgue.

There aren’t enough sheets to cover the bodies. 

It’s already starting to stink, the fumes mixing with the smell of sweat and burnt flesh. Some of the bodies are still warm, smoke rising from the blaster holes in their armor. Every time Jesse lifts a body of a brother in the Coruscant Guard, he feels a part of him go numb. He’d been the one to order the 501st to set to kill. It was that, or die. 

But it still hurts. 

His limbs are heavy, his feet feeling every jolt of each step he takes. At his side, Senator Amidala is helping them move the bodies, her face hard and streaked with tears. 

None of her security personnel had survived the last wave. She places a hand over the still body of Captain Typho, murmuring a quiet Nubian farewell. 

The office of Senator Amidala’s suite has been turned into a makeshift medbay, allowing for those too injured to fight to rest. There aren’t many - there’s only about three of them that aren’t either healthy enough to keep fighting or already dead. As for the medical supplies, they’re already out of bacta and bandages, with Senator Amidala only having stocked up enough for around ten people. She’d never expected there to be a full-blown battle in her apartments, after all.

As for the bodies of the Senate Guard, Jesse takes a vindictive pleasure in stacking them over the entrance to hinder future squads. He’s aware that this isn’t very _nice_ , not really, but kriff them. They aren’t being mind-controlled - they’re following orders from Palpatine on their own volition. He’d heard their battle cries of “For the Chancellor!” enough to make him uncaring about what happens to their bodies. 

Eleven minutes later, after they’d managed to clear out the bodies, Jesse checks on equipment and curses. They’re also running out of ammo. Silently, he sends a prayer to whatever kriffin’ gods are out there - be it the Force or whatever the kark could help - for the Handmaidens of Senator Amidala to succeed soon. 

They’d left over two hours ago. There were no communications since. It’s entirely possible that they were shot down in their mission to CenComms, and that they would never know the truth of what happened.

His hands are shaking. He pulls out an empty power pack from his blaster and grabs another one, clutching a little harder than he should at the hardened duraplast to try to find something to ground him other than the uneven floor against his feet. The empty power pack clatters to the floor and he shoves the full one into the blaster, preparing for the next wave. 

He takes stock, and his heart aches from a stabbing pain. Of the twenty-four brothers he’d arrived with, there’s only seven of them left. Senator Amidala’s protocol droid is out of commission, blown to smithereens by a grenade, and Duchess Satine is barely in fighting shape. Senator Organa is less trained in combat - trained, but not for something as high-stakes as this. He looks about ready to collapse on his feet, held up only by adrenaline. 

Jesse tries to ignore the churning in his stomach. He tries to ignore the truth that seems to be screaming directly into his ears - that while there still might be a minuscule chance to survive the next wave, even if they do, it will be the last one they do.

He wonders if this is how it ends. With his blasters leveled up against his brothers and his final moments staring into his brothers’ barrel. 

Scans show him that there aren’t any squads en route - yet. It means nothing, of course. A fresh squad could be assembled and brought to this place in five minutes, tops. But for the moment, he takes his time to rest, to allow his trembling muscles to relax and to allow his jaw to unclench. He slides to the ground, his knees giving way under him, and he takes a moment to allow himself to loosen up.

“Trooper.”

He turns his head to see Senator Amidala, a bottle in her hand. “Senator,” he says tiredly.

She holds out the bottle. “Drink. We don’t have much time.” 

He’s too tired to protest. The water offers little comfort, but at least it’s something for a parched throat. He hands her back the bottle with a nod of thanks, wondering how she’s still looking like she’s able to keep fighting.

Then he discards the thought. Though many senators have never seen combat in their life, Senator Amidala is not one of them. Everyone knows the story of how she fought against the Trade Federation - and won - at the age of fourteen. 

Part of her hair is scorched off, the strands blackened and burnt from a blaster bolt that had come too close. Her dress, too, is partially torn and coated with dust and grime, blood spattering across one of her sleeves. Part of Jesse is surprised to see that her dress isn’t completely ruined, but then again, he shouldn’t be. The clothing that she’s wearing now is not the fine silks of the dresses she wears on the Senate floor, but rather the thick leather armor of her handmaidens, designed to be protective and lightweight. 

General Skywalker’s R2-unit rolls up, beeping quietly. He’s at forty-two percent power, he says. In other news, though, he detected reports of an infiltration at CenComms fifteen minutes ago when he sliced through the holonet during the downtime. 

Jesse holds back a laugh. Of course the droid immediately started slicing the moment there was a break in fighting. Artoo is just as reckless and efficient as his General. 

But that’s good news, at least. “They got through,” Senator Amidala breathes, and Jesse can’t help the spark of hope that ignites - that maybe, just maybe, in the next few moments, her Handmaidens will succeed and stop the kill-orders.

His desire to put a blaster bolt through Palpatine’s head comes back again. Bastard. Karking mother-kriffing piece of bantha-fodder. To violate Jesse’s brother’s autonomy - to turn them into pre-programmed _droids_ \- it makes Jesse really, really want to see justice for this. Screw putting a blaster bolt into Palpatine’s head, he really just deserves one up his-

“Incoming, two klicks out at ten o’clock and fast approaching.” One his brother’s voices cuts into his thoughts, the clipped tone making him quickly put the bucket back on. A quick scan with infrared mode shows him five squads - fifty soldiers and senate guards - on the approach. 

“Five-to-one odds,” he mutters, and despite his desire not to show it, he can hear the defeat in his voice and feel it in the slump of his shoulders. 

This is it, then. 

He’s been in dangerous life-or-death situations before, certainly, and he’s been injured on the battlefield, but there’s something about knowing that he might be killed by his own brothers that makes his limbs heavy. It isn’t even their fault - they have no choice. The inhibitor chips control their actions as surely as a puppetmaster controls the strings of their puppets. 

“Trooper.” Then, more softly, “Or, with permission, Jesse.” He turns his head to see Senator Amidala, her posture stiff and her face hardened. She’d heard what he’d said about the odds. Her head tilts, inclining towards where Senator Organa and Duchess Satine are on the ground, too tired or injured to stand, and she salutes. “I speak of the three of us when I thank you. It’s been an honour.”

She’s saying goodbye. 

Behind her, Duchess Satine passes a fist over her chest in a traditional Mandalorian salute of honour, her face impassive but her eyes brimming with sorrow. Senator Organa imitates Senator Amidala, his face a picture of resolve. 

“To all of you, we thank you,” Senator Amidala says, meeting the eyes of each remaining trooper. “You have all made great sacrifices today, and you have all fought valiantly. The Republic couldn’t have asked for better men..” Her hand tightens on something in her grip, hidden from view. “I understand why General Skywalker has given your battalion high praise. You are the finest of soldiers. With luck, this will be over soon if my Handmaidens are successful.”

He stands to attention, getting up from the floor, and he snaps a salute back. “It’s been an honour fighting at your side, Senator,” he says, and behind him, his brothers echo the sentiment. 

The moment seems to stretch on, locked in one moment in time. Jesse is suddenly aware of his own heartbeat, of his brothers’ heavy breaths, of the red flushing Senator Amidala’s cheeks and of the brightness of Senator Organa’s eyes, and he’s equally aware that all of those things will stop soon if the Handmaidens do not succeed. He’d never really gotten to say goodbye to the rest of his brothers either, to Rex and Echo and Fives and all the others, and he feels a pang of regret that isn’t dulled by experience. He’d had many brothers die at his side throughout the years, but it never got easier. It still isn’t easy. 

Then one of his brothers speaks, and the spell is broken. “Five minutes out.”

Jesse and his brothers stand in a rush of activity, putting the finishing touches on the temporary barricade they’ve set up. There’s a small weak link they’ve left in the far corner - if all goes according to plan, it should funnel the enemy squads, making them easier targets. 

It makes Jesse sick to think of his brothers in the Coruscant guard as ‘enemy targets’, but there isn’t a choice.

Behind him, he can hear a quiet murmur of voices thanks to the enhancement in his bucket. The audio filters in his helmet are designed to muffle blast noises to protect the ears and to also pick up voices for better eavesdropping when needed, and by consequence, he can hear every word the Senators and Duchess are saying. He tries not to listen out of respect, but he can’t help it, and something catches in his throat at the sound of their voices, trying desperately to be brave but aware that these might be their last moments as they speak into a holorecorder.

“-get this message, I’ll be-”

“-hope you receive this-”

“-the time we spent in the mountains, Breha? It was the best-”

“-truly, deeply love you. Before I die, I-”

“-loved you always-”

“-happy for the time we’ve-”

“-take care of Ahsoka and Obi-Wan, Ani-”

“-dear Obi-Wan, I will be thinking of you-”

“-care of yourself. I love you-”

A part of him is a little vindicated, he has to admit. The relationship between General Skywalker and Senator Amidala was considered the most poorly kept secret in the 501st - well, in the top ranks, anyway. He’d made bets with Rex and some of his other brothers, some of whom wanted to give their General the benefit of the doubt, and one of them absolutely convinced that General Skywalker was not with Senator Amidala but rather with General Kenobi. Rex had doubled his bet, citing his belief that there was additional “tension” (he’d made it sound suggestive) between General Kenobi and the Duchess Satine. So, in all fairness, it really is Rex who ends up winning the bet, but Jesse takes a small victory in knowing that he’s right about General Skywalker and Senator Amidala, at least. 

Well, that’ll be his motivation to get through this. A chance for bragging rights, a few handfuls of credits, and several drinks. It’ll be worth it. 

(He pushes back the voice that tells him that he won’t make it that far.)

“Two minutes,” a brother says, and he gets into position. The stun detonators are set in the hallways leading to the suite- enough, hopefully, to at least weaken the enemy squads, but it’s unclear whether or not the sheer amount they’ve put is enough to compensate for the cortosis-laced armor of the Senate Guard. It should, however, take out their brothers in the Coruscant Guard non-lethally. 

The murmur of the Senators and Duchess saying goodbye have tapered off, the three of them getting into position. Hidden to the side, close enough to ignite the oil that he poured on the floor near the entrance, Artoo stands at attention. 

“One minute,” the brother murmurs, and they all lapse into silence.

Jesse's muscles are shaking. He's tense and exhausted, horribly of each breath of air he sucks in and of each passing second. He’s not afraid to die. He’s always known that the risk was present - he was raised a soldier. But he’s afraid for his brothers, for the Senators, for the Duchess, because the words he had heard them murmuring were the words of a final farewell and they haven’t even reached the seniority of their years and it isn’t fair when they have people to return to that will miss them always-

He sighs. There’s no time for what-ifs. There’s only time for what’s going to happen soon. 

A small signal flashes in his visor. _Movement detected,_ it says. 

So far, so good. He counts to ten. 

His stomach is churning. 

He wants to be sick. 

He doesn’t want to kill any more brothers.

He wants to be back on the _Resolute_ , drinking with his brothers and Generals and Commander. 

He wants-

The countdown finishes, and he presses the ignition button. 

And the screams begin. 

He’s heard these screams before, not just for the past few hours, but for the past few years, their sounds echoing in the nightmares that are a common occurrence amongst him and his brothers who have seen active combat. Still, it doesn’t get easier, and hearing the raw agony of the howls as his brothers in the Coruscant Guard are electrocuted into unconsciousness makes him clench his jaw so hard his teeth hurt. 

Then he sees the blue of the Senate Guard’s armor peeking out from over the makeshift barricade, and the battle begins anew. 

The sounds of blaster bolts fill the air, the high whine of weapons discharging again and again fading into a continuous background noise as Jesse picks off the Senate Guard with precise shots. He’s aware of his brothers beside him, firing again and again as the makeshift barricade prevents the Senate Guard from doubling around and surrounding them. There’s a rush of sound as Artoo ignites the oil, making it impossible for thermal detonators to be thrown through the barricade lest they blow up in the thrower’s face.

At Jesse’s side, one of his brothers collapses from a blaster bolt to the head. 

He grips his blaster and pulls the trigger again and again, each shot deliberate and carefully aimed. Luckily, the stun detonators had taken out two squads and weakened the cortosis-laced armor, making it less of a slaughter than Jesse had anticipated.

Another brother falls. He grits his teeth. 

From five-to-one odds to three-to-one odds is _something_ , but it isn’t enough. The blaster bolts are flying closer and closer to his head, and it’s only a matter of time before something hits him. But he can’t afford to think like that. 

He’s taken down four Senate Guards and two of the Coruscant Guard. There’s too many of-

An ear-splitting noise screeches through his helmet and he jumps, cursing loudly at the sudden influx of static. He’s unaware of it, but the Senate and Coruscant Guard are doing the same, as are his brothers in the 501st. Only the Senators and Duchess are spared, the static from their wrist-mounted comms providing nothing more than a sudden annoyance rather than a debilitating screech projected straight into their ears. They take the opportunity, their shots downing an additional six Senate Guards. 

Then the Senate Guards are back up, firing relentlessly, and so are Jesse and his brothers, but-

The Coruscant Guard are hesitating. 

“Get yourself together!” screams one of the Senate Guard, hand pointing in Jesse’s direction. “Kill the Senators and the traitors, by Order of the Supreme Chancellor-”

One of the Coruscant Guard turns his blaster on the Senate Guard and pulls the trigger.

“Kriff you,” he snarls, and Jesse’s heart soars. 

The Handmaidens had done it. 

They’d really done it. 

They’d deactivated the kill order. 

It’s no contest. With the remaining Coruscant Guard turning against the Senate guard, the odds have changed. There’s a feral grin on Jesse’s face - he’ll soon be able to collect his winnings and meet up with his brothers in the 501st again. He’ll hopefully see Palpatine being brought to justice too, though he doesn’t think he’ll mind too much if General Skywalker kills the traitorous bastard first. 

He can almost see it in his mind's eye. A cheerful reunion aboard the _Resolute_ , his Generals and his Commander safe, the news of Palpatine's execution and the freeing of the clones under the control chips. Finally, the war will be over, and they can relax. They can celebrate. They have so many plans - trips to Alderaan, to some other Mid-rIm planets, a trip to Kamino to check on the younger shinies who won't need to live in a world torn apart by war. And maybe a quick check on the Kaminoans, too, and maybe a blaster bolt to their heads for implanting slave chips in their heads.

All that Jesse needs is to make sure he doesn’t get hit by a stray blaster bolt, but that’s unlikely. The Senate Guard’s desperation leaks through, but it’s hopeless for them, their numbers dwindling quickly, their shots going wide, going around Jesse’s brothers and into the walls and straight towards Jesse’s head-

\--

_You can’t change everything._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've pushed back the exploration of the source of Palpatine's extra power to the next chapter, though I think some of you can guess what/who is the source. 
> 
> Friday update? I'll absolutely try my best - I have it all planned out already. Writing updates and delays can be found on my tumblr blog @revenge-of-the-shit, alongside a healthy number of SW/TCW shitposts, if you're looking for that sort of thing. 
> 
> I'm sure you've all noticed a distinct lack of Count Dooku and General Grievous in this story. To which I say - they're coming! Just not yet. They'll definitely show up along the way. 
> 
> And wow! 20 chapters total planned? I think that's what's going to happen, but it's certainly possible to change it, especially since the more I write this the more I think of ideas I'd like to include.


	13. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the past, events unfold one after another, leaving the Order scrambling to keep up lest the Sith blind them.
> 
> In the present, well... treachery is always very, very bad business, especially when it comes to piracy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised to get back to our main characters in the Now, but you see, Hondo just called to me, y'know? I had to write something about him. 
> 
> Not my best work this chapter due to other circumstances in which I could not spend as much time writing and reviewing, but I wanted to get something out for you guys. Thank you very much for the comments - they inspire me too keep writing :D

**Then.**

When he’s in the shadows, his vision is no longer hindered by eyesight. 

He doesn’t really… _see_ , per se, not in the way eyes permit one to. Rather, he can picture in perfect detail the places he wants to look into, able to visualize the image he can see from each shadow in the area. 

_Tell me, Chosen, One, who is the most powerful being on your side of the war?_

It’s easy to move between shadows as long as they’re present in the area he wants to go to. When he’s incorporeal, he’s One with the Force, his Presence merged with the dull colours of the asphalt on the road or the shining transparisteel of the buildings. 

_What power do you mean? Political power in the Senate?_

The only place he can’t move is off-planet. There are no shadows in space. He’s unsure how it’s limited, but as far as he knows, he can only move to shadows that are physically connected - be it a ship touching the ground at a landing platform or different buildings in a city block. 

_You did not heed my words, Son of the Force. You asked for knowledge. You did not use it._

The journey to the Chancellor’s office takes little time. There is no concept of distance in the shadows - he moves as quickly or as slowly as he wishes as long as he knows where he is going. In the back of his mind, he pulls up his shields, ignoring the insistent calls of Obi-Wan through their bond. 

This late at night, the office is empty, long shadows cast by the desk and the chairs thanks to the ever-present light of Coruscant’s skyscrapers and night-life. There’s no one around - a quick scan shows active motion sensors and alarms, easily disabled by pulling the shadows over their lenses. After all, they aren’t set to trigger because of a small change in lighting. Such a thing happens frequently, with the speeder traffic passing constantly on Coruscant and making the glow of the skyscrapers flicker.

Anakin casts out his senses, searching for the sliver of the strange presence he had detected earlier. It’s elusive and hard to find - after minutes of fruitless searching, he begins to relax, glad that his fears were unfounded-

_There._

Incorporeal as he is, his stomach drops and he feels his heart in his throat. He catches onto it - the sliver of the Dark Side, so indiscernible and subtle that had he not been given the Son’s legacy, he likely wouldn’t even have caught it. And even then, he had been so very close to brushing it off as nothing. The only thing that had pushed him to look again was the word of Revan.

The word, and the memory of the power Sith Emperor, whose Presence is floating in the Chancellor’s office, subtle and poisonous. The words of the Chancellor float through Anakin’s mind again. 

_To advise you to trust in the Force, as if it were possible be at peace within your mind while your student is accused, to simply stand aside while your friend is in trouble… well, that possibility is simply a lie._

He can’t believe he missed this. But then again, the workings of a Sith are subtle. 

_As if it is possible to be at peace while your friend is accused… it is a lie._

Very, very subtle. His mind had wondered at the wording of the phrase, yet he had discarded the thought, putting it off as something unimportant. But he hears the underlying phrase, the words of Revan fresh in his mind. 

_Peace is a lie._

The first tenant of the Sith Code. 

If the Sith had snuck in the influence of the past Emperor and had hidden it in Palpatine’s office, Anakin can’t help but wonder what it would have done to Palpatine’s mind over time. The Chancellor is not a Force-Sensitive - for Palpatine to begin quoting the Sith Code means that the Sith Master has truly begun to sink his claws into the Chancellor, and that is something that _cannot_ happen. Anakin needs to destroy the source of the Sith influence. 

(The other possibility- that Palpatine might even be in league with-

No. Anakin refuses to consider it. It isn’t possible. It just isn’t.)

Before he steps out of the shadows, he hesitates. He’s fairly certain in his abilities to stay hidden and not get caught. Still - there is a possibility, and it wouldn’t do if he got caught lurking in the Chancellor’s office during a search for a Sith Holocron that he wouldn’t have sensed had he not been given an enhanced affinity for the Dark Side.

So a disguise, then. 

_Ekkreth,_ Ar-Amu had said of him. _Shape-Changer._

He remembers how the Son had taken the form of his mother on Mortis. He hadn’t even been able to sense the Son’s presence while he was in that form - all he could sense was his mother’s presence, warm and comforting, a soothing calm in the Force. 

But whose form should he take? 

He doesn’t want to implicate any living being that he knows, but-

Ah.

Who said that he had to take the form of a living being?

Anakin calls on the memory of Revan’s presence and wraps it around his own, allowing it to settle around his form like a second layer of clothing. It’s cold and it feels _wrong,_ feels foreign, but he pushes through and emerges from the shadows in the Chancellor’s office in a body that isn’t his own. 

“Damn,” he whispers, and his voice is Revan’s. 

Memories that are not his own whisper in the Force, close enough to be reached but far enough not to press into his mind without him reaching out. He calls to the memory of the Sith Emperor, refreshing what he remembers of the Emperor’s presence, and he casts his senses out into the room, searching to pinpoint where the Dark influence may be coming from. 

His feet begin to shift of their own accord, drawing towards an inconspicuous vase near the wall. In the Force, the vase is unassuming - nothing more than the dull brown of a dead object, looking and feeling like nothing more than a simple decoration.

_But._

Anakin leans deeper into the Force, his feet sinking into the shadow of the vase, and he hears the whispers he wouldn’t have heard had he not been given the gifts of the Son. 

_I am nothing but a simple vase,_ the Force murmurs around it, acting like a shield that cannot be seen. It’s laced with a persuasion so subtle that even the most powerful of Jedi masters would fall for it. _I am nothing. I am beneath your notice._

He reaches out and nudges the vase with the Force. 

Nothing. 

Of course. It will need to be a bit more deliberate. 

He falls deeper into the Force, allowing it to guide his actions. He feels his arm being lifted - not by his own will, but guided by tendrils of the Force - and he stretches out a finger from his flesh hand. A single bolt of crimson lightning strikes the vase, and for a horrible moment, he’s afraid that he’s just destroyed it, and that he needs to go before anyone notices-

The vase shudders, but does not break. A compartment opens, and in the Force, Anakin senses the shielded bubble around the vase expanding, moving to cover him as well and protecting him from being detected by other Force-Sensitives. And in it-

The holocron. 

It glows a sharp crimson, writhing in the Force with power and rage so strong that Anakin recoils. Compared to this, Dooku’s presence is weak, Ventress’ presence feeble, Maul’s presence serene. Even the vision of Revan’s holocron pales in the face of such evil.

And yet…

It calls to him.

He should destroy it. He should take out his lightsaber and burn it, he should disintegrate it with his Force Lightning, he should-

_But it’s so alluring._

No. He shouldn’t-

His hand reaches out, and he nudges it with the Force. 

The holocron swells, rage and hatred swirling around it in a chaotic mass of Darkness, and a figure flickers into view. Memories that do not belong to Anakin dance around his mind and he pulls at them, using them to understand who he faces.

“Darth Revan,” greets the Sith Emperor. 

Anakin doesn’t answer him, though the names of the Emperor are on his tongue. Tenebrae. Lord Vitiate. Eternal Emperor. Valkorion. 

“But you are not he, are you?” Vitiate asks. He tilts his head, curious, and something cold and slimy presses against Anakin’s Force-presence, searching for answers. He slams his shields up to his highest, wrapping the appearance of Revan around himself. “Yet you look like him. You feel like him.” 

Anakin grits his teeth, grateful for the mask of Revan that hides his expressions, and he presses forward with a statement. “You were brought here by the Sith Master.”

Vitiate gestures. “Of course. Even millennia after my death, my influence spans across worlds.” 

“You are nothing but a shadow of what you once were,” Anakin replies, denial and horror rising from a pit in his stomach. “What influence you claim to have is little.” For an ancient Sith to be influencing modern events is- not good, to say the least. The desire within him to draw his lightsaber and to destroy the holocron wars with his desire to learn _more,_ his fingers twitching, and Vitiate notices it. 

The ancient Sith Emperor doesn’t smile. Still, his dark humor leaks into the Force, gleeful and sadistic. “Little influence? You are blind. The most powerful Sith in millenia has arisen, and he carries within him my legacy.” 

Part of Anakin wants to know why Vitiate is revealing this so readily, but he’s sure he knows. 

The Sith are arrogant. The Sith are not loyal.

After all, treachery is the way of the Sith.

“Are you sure he is the most powerful?” Anakin asks, and he holds out his flesh hand, palm up, allowing the crimson currents to spark over his skin. Vitiate doesn’t react - not visibly - but the Force colours with a subtle interest. “Your legacy may be wasted.”

“Is it?” Vitiate’s eyes glimmer - the dangerous yellow of poison - and a hunger leaks into the Force. “Will it be wasted if you take my holocron with you?”

It’s tempting. So, so tempting, to take the holocron for himself and to drain it of knowledge. If he could use it, he could defeat the Sith Master and become the most powerful Jedi in the galaxy. He’d make sure that no Sith would ever rise again. He’d-

_Anakin!_

Through his training bond with Obi-Wan, he receives a stiff poke, and he flinches. 

Right. Taking a Sith holocron of one of the most powerful Sith in history into the Jedi Temple - not a good idea. He sends an irate _I’m alright, don’t bother me_ through the bond, and turns back to Vitiate. 

(But it doesn’t mean he can’t take knowledge right now. He casts out his senses, and finds no one approaching or even aware of Vitiate’s presence. Even Obi-Wan, connected to Anakin through the bond, is clueless.)

Anakin tilts his head, focusing on the holocron. It’s easy to call on his rage when a beacon of it floats in front of him. “It would be a waste if you were to be destroyed right now,” he says softly, and he curls his fingers.

The holocron cracks, but does not break. 

Something flares in Vitiate’s eyes, then - rage, and a hint of respect. “What is it that you wish?”

Anakin takes a moment. Vitiate is dangerous - even more so than Revan - and Anakin needs to tread carefully to prevent himself from being manipulated. 

“Who is the Sith Master?” Anakin asks. “And what did you pass on to him?”

Vitiate’s posture is unchanged, standing straight-backed with his hands folded behind him. “He did not reveal his identity,” he says. Anakin resists rolling his eyes - of course. The Sith Master would know that all Sith practice treachery. “As for knowledge - what do you know of Nathema?”

The name murmurs in the Force, the memories of Revan swirling around Anakin. He calls on them - _Nathema, show me Nathema_ , he tells it - and he recoils at what he sees. 

A world, barren of life. But what is worse is the emptiness he feels of the memories there - the emptiness of a world that is devoid even of the Force, corrupted by a deep perversion of the use of the Force in an ancient ritual conducted by Vitiate. 

An ancient ritual to increase his power and his lifespan by a thousandfold, at the cost of the lives and Force of an entire _planet._

Horror engulfs Anakin. If the Sith Master has learned that technique, not a single _planet_ is safe from his hunger. “You taught him _that_?” he snarls, and his lightsaber flies into his hand. 

Vitiate stares back, unfazed at the sudden sign of impending doom for his holocron. “He has not conducted the ritual as of yet,” he says, tone dismissive. He tilts his head a fraction, a sliver of amusement leaking into the Force. “You are fearful of death, little Jedi.” 

Fear twists Anakin’s stomach. _How does Vitiate know this?_ “Who said I was a Jedi?” he retorts, and he ignites his lightsaber. The blade shines, flickering between violet and crimson, and at the back of his mind, he’s grateful that his gift of Shape-Changing has extended to the kyber. 

After all, the kyber crystal is but an extension of its true wielder. 

Vitiate ignores the question, his eyes piercing. “But you should know the tenets of your Code, should you not? To be fearful of death is not the Jedi way. For there is no death, there is only the Force.” His mouth curls into a smile, and the Force sings with terror. “And I am its master.”

Memories of thousands of years past are called to Anakin’s mind. He sees Revan, defeated and imprisoned by Vitiate. He sees millions of lives destroyed because of Vitiate’s hunger for power. He sees the Force, writhing and twisting as it is subjugated by the will of a man who wields too much power. 

In the back of Anakin’s mind, he hears the voice of Ar-Amu. _The Force is not meant to be used this way._

“You may have been, in the past,” Anakin growls, “but you are its master no longer. You are nothing but a memory of what you once were.” 

And one swift movement, he slices the holocron in two. 

The split second before he does, Vitiate _laughs._

And the holocron explodes. 

The Force _howls,_ a mixture of rage and hatred and pain bursting outwards and lashing out towards Anakin. On instinct, he pushes back, using the Force as a barrier against the Dark Side energy pulsing against him. It howls, and it howls, and it _howls,_ pushing back at him relentlessly until his feet strike the Chancellor’s desk, and he’s afraid that it’s never going to stop-

Then it stops. 

Three things happen at once. 

One, he hears Obi-Wan and Ahsoka frantically calling to him through their bonds. 

_Anakin, what did you just do?_

_Master! Master, are you alright-_

Two, he realizes that the Force-bubble that had hidden the presence of Vitiate had collapsed the moment the holocron had been destroyed, leaving the presence of the Sith hanging heavily in the Chancellor’s office.

And three, the explosion had damaged the Chancellor’s office, and the alarms are blaring. 

Whoops. He’d kriffed up. 

Luckily, he’d ended up in the shadow of the desk. The millisecond before the door opens to the Senate Guard storming in, he melts into the shadows.

\--

As one, the Jedi in the Temple bolt awake as they become aware of a Dark presence on Coruscant.

(In one of the rooms, one of the padawans sits awake with a gasp. She’d been wracked with guilt since the bombing, that emotion warring with her resolve and hatred for what the Jedi had become, and she hadn’t slept well at all in the weeks leading up to the execution of her plan. Her master had confronted her, before, about her unease, but she had brushed it off, and had pretended that she wasn’t having nightmares.)

\--

Moments before, deep in his meditation, Darth Sidious draws on the Force, pulling at the many tendrils of possible futures to examine the paths he should consider. 

There have been a few… unexpected factors, of late, and he’d had to readjust his timing, but no matter. He has been planning for dozens of years. He knows well how to adjust.

As he meditates on the future, a part of him directs his energy to something else.

After all, the manipulation of dreams does require some effort. They must be carefully formed - shaped to the victim’s doubts and fears. Too much, and the victim in question will seek help. Too little, and they will dismiss it. But at just the right amount, the manipulation of dreams can nurture a seed of the Dark Side, and allow it to grow. 

At the same time he thinks on the manipulation of dreams, his mind turns to some of his associates, such as Tarkin. There is little persuasion or manipulation to be done there - Tarkin is already a desirable ally with similar ideals. The only issue, however, is that he may potentially gather too much power. Sidious ruminates on the Captain, thinking of ways to dispose of Tarkin should he prove too powerful to handle. It wouldn’t do, of course, to kill him with a lightsaber blade. Too simple, too direct. Too many consequences. No, if the time comes - and far in the future, it seems - it would be best to eliminate him through more discreet means. 

As for-

The Force explodes, a howling, writhing mass of hatred, and Sidious breaks out of his meditation in a rage. 

The holocron!

He snarls, casting out his senses to his office. If he can find the offender- if he can kill the pitiful Jedi- 

Nothing. There is no one in the office, no one but the guards who are clearly reeling in surprise. He shouts in rage, the sound dulled by his thick walls, and he draws back his anger to be used in a controlled manner. The destruction of the holocron - and the loss of knowledge - is very regretful, but there is nothing to be done ruminating on _possibilities._ As Lord Vitiate had said - one must hold the patience of stone and the will of stars to prepare oneself for the future, lest they drown in the currents of time. 

Hm. No, it wouldn’t do to reveal himself. It would be best if he could direct the attention to the Temple Bomber- perhaps she could be blamed, for after all, the damage to his office _was_ caused by an explosion…

And with control honed by decades of practice, he falls back into meditation, and focuses on the poison of dreams. 

\--

The sun rises to a Temple in turmoil.

Younglings are cranky, having been woken up much earlier than they are used to, and they were all unable to sleep with the heavy cloud of the Dark Side hanging so closely just a few city blocks away. Padawans are jumpy - though they were able to shield themselves well enough to fall back asleep, their unease murmurs constantly around themselves, and the Knights are fearful, though they hide it well. The Masters continue on, heads held high and sending out soothing waves of calm and Light throughout the Temple, but even they are afraid. The presence of the Dark Side - so strong and so close, just a few blocks away - does not bode well. 

Hours earlier, Master Windu had left immediately with Master Fisto to investigate the explosion. They had been delayed, and after they were finally admitted, the scene had been removed of nearly all things useful. It had been a frustrating time, searching for a place nearly scraped clean by Coruscant Police, and the claim of Jedi jurisdiction had been met with little approval. 

Yet. 

They had found something disturbing indeed. 

It hovers, now, in the middle of the Council chambers, held aloft by Mace Windu’s telekinetic grip. “This is a disturbing find in the Chancellor’s office,” he says. “Coruscant police have put the explosion down to an unknown explosive, possibly caused by the Temple bomber, but I believe that this is part of what remains of what caused the explosion.”

Yoda holds out his hand, calling the small crimson fragment to examine himself. His ears droop as he examines it, and the Force colours with sadness and reproach. “Disturbing, it is, that sense this, we could not.”

“A Sith holocron,” Mace murmurs, and a quiet shock colours the Force. All of the members have already sensed the darkness emanating from this fragment, but to have confirmation of such a thing is very distressing. “We believe that it may have been deliberately hidden in the Chancellor’s office by the Sith Master in order to influence him - and our side of the war.”

“It is indeed disturbing that none of us could sense its presence in the many times we have walked through the Chancellor’s office,” says Master Tiin. 

“The Dark Side has been blinding us since before the war,” Master Fisto adds. “For us to be blind to such happenings close to our home does not bode well.”

The Council sits in contemplation, ruminating on the implications of this situation, before Master Mundi breaks the silence. “But what caused the destruction of the holocron? Such devices have never been known to self-destruct without an outside influence. It is very likely that it was destroyed by an outsider.”

As the Council squabbles and talks, Obi-Wan remains silent, well aware of the answer to that question. 

Anakin had returned to his room through the shadows three seconds after Obi-Wan had been startled by the explosion of Dark coming from the Senate Dome. He’d been furious and had acted without thinking, concern leaking from him in waves as he held Anakin in place with the blue-green mist. “What in the universe were you _thinking,_ Anakin?” He’d nearly shouted. His worry had bled through the Force, frantic and terrified. If Anakin had gotten exposed-

And Anakin had stared back, golden eyes aglow with horror, and he’d said, “I destroyed the holocron of Darth Vitiate that I found in the Chancellor’s office.”

Well.

That was something indeed. 

They’d both been torn over speaking with the Council about it. On one hand, the presence of the holocron and of the ancient Sith Emperor was extremely urgent, but on the other hand, they were both worried that the Council would question too closely just _how_ they came by that knowledge. And they both knew - all too well - that while Anakin can redirect the truth and omit parts of it really well, he is absolutely _kriffing_ terrible at lying directly. 

_But is it not selfish?_ A voice had asked Obi-Wan. _To put your fears above the galaxy?_

(He’d always had a soft spot for Anakin.)

He’d shoved it away, and asked the Force for guidance.

He’d gotten nothing. 

And he listens to the Council in silence now, and he finds himself somewhat irritated at their fruitless debates.

“We should request to check the Chancellor’s mind of influences of the Dark Side,” Master Mundi says. “The effect of the holocron over a long period of time may have damaged him.”

“Are you mad?” demands Master Rancisis in return. “Even suggesting such a thing borders on subordination. To ask for such a breach of privacy, no matter how well-intentioned, could reflect negatively on the Order.” 

Obi-Wan trusts the Council - he does - but there are times where they can be trying. He breaks into their debates with a question. “Does anyone know of the holocron fragment you recovered, Master Windu?”

Mace shakes his head. “No. As far as they were aware, we left with nothing. I found it prudent to pretend we were unaware - when dealing with the Sith, we must be discreet.” 

Good. “It may be for the best if we do not reveal any suspicion we have of Sith involvement,” Obi-Wan says. “We may excuse our involvement with suspicion of the Temple Bomber.” 

“Would it be best to scan the Chancellor’s mind discreetly, then?” asks Master Kolar, and the temperature in the room drops by a fraction of a degree.

Of course. What he just said borders on treason. But…

“To a dangerous place, take us, this may,” says Yoda. He hums. “Great care, we must take. A discreet scan, not possible, it is, for alert the Chancellor or the Sith who tried to influence him, we may.”

A possibility crosses Obi-Wan’s mind, then, something he had never considered before. 

The Chancellor amassing power during the war.

The approval of the chips in the clone’s head, signed in approval by the Chancellor.

Dooku, on Geonosis, saying, “What if I told you that the Republic was now under the control of a dark lord of the Sith?”

_Is it possible that the Chancellor is the Sith Master?_

Impossible. His mind rejects the possibility the moment he thinks about it, because that would mean that they are incredibly _blind._ How could the Council never have sensed it? What’s more, the Chancellor has been a great friend and mentor to Anakin-

_Oh, no._

If the Chancellor is the Sith Lord-

No. No, no, no. This would not do at all. Obi-Wan draws back, carefully fortifying his shields to make sure he continues not to draw attention to himself, and he pushes back the treasonous thoughts. Of course the Chancellor isn’t a Sith. Master Yoda would have sensed it, certainly. The Chancellor has been nearly assassinated too many times for it to be fake. The Force around him has always been kind and sincere. The evidence Obi-Wan can think of is nothing but circumstantial. 

But as the meeting drags on, his mind keeps returning to the possibility, and he wonders. 

\--

Evening on Coruscant is like any other, the lazy movement of the speeder lanes a distant thing in the background. The constant whine of machinery and vehicles fades into a lulling background noise, easy to dismiss or to forget after one has lived here for long. 

For Ahsoka, it’s a noise that she doesn’t have the privilege of hearing for the time being. The cell is deep within the detention facility, locking her away from the outside world. The only company she has is the convor - it calls itself _Morai_ \- and if she wasn’t a Jedi, she’d be bored out of her mind. 

But she is. Her hours are spent in meditation, falling deeply into the Force to calm her anxieties and to glimpse an idea of the future. Morai only breaks her out of meditation once in a while, when she falls so deeply into the Force she begins to glow.

Right. She needs to control that. 

In the silence of her cell, she meditates on the gifts given to her by the Daughter. Force Healing, certainly. But she’s also felt like… _more._ More powerful in the Force, in her foresight, in her agility and her movements. Sometimes, she thinks she feels wings of light brushing at her back, a comforting presence that reminds her of the Daughter’s Light. 

She tries moving them, once. She almost feels them brushing the edges of the cell, the white-gold light encompassing the walls of her room in the Force, and she pulls it back, unwilling to risk getting caught on camera. Maybe - when she’s free - she’ll see what she can really do with them in an open space. 

Sometimes, she wonders what her reflection would look like. She’d seen Anakin’s other form - his mouth too wide with too many teeth, his wings stretching to blacken the entire room, his eyes the glimmering gold of the Sith. She’d seen Obi-Wan’s too, his movements a little too smooth, his eyes a little bit too aglow, and how sometimes, when he doesn’t notice, his feet would pass through objects he should’ve tripped on. 

Ahsoka falls deeper and deeper into meditation, feeling the quiet thrum of the Force around her in the air and in the many lights of the lives housed in the detention facility, and she meditates on the situation. There is little she can do for her situation - nothing but trust in the Force. 

Something sparks in front of her. She opens her eyes, and she sees her older self standing in the cell. 

(If she doesn’t use the Force to look, she doesn’t see the apparition of her older self. Of course she won’t - it’s a vision, after all.)

The apparition smiles, its lips rising in an unsteady grimace that shows rotted teeth. Half of the skin on the face has decayed, showing the deteriorating muscle and the white of bone underneath, and the montrals are crumbling, their tips ragged. It stares at Ahsoka, its eyes rolled up so far into its head that there is nothing but white. 

But strangely enough, she isn’t afraid. 

“Are you happy, child?” The apparition asks, an echo of Mortis. Its chest is burnt and blackened, a single hole burned straight through its heart. Ahsoka knows well enough that it is a lightsaber wound. 

“What business of it is yours?” She asks calmly. She doesn’t react the same way she did on Mortis, ready to fight with lightsabers drawn. It’s not like she has her lightsabers, anyway. Instead, she stares back, unflinching. 

At her side, Morai hoots, a soothing white-gold to ground her.

“I was your future,” it says, and Ahsoka raises her brow. _Was?_ “But I am no longer.”

“You were?” she asks. In the Force, the apparition is dead, a dull thing subdued by death. 

“You became One with the Force,” it says, and it tilts his head. “You cannot re-become something you already are.”

A chill runs down Ahsoka’s spine, her breath leaving her lungs in a woosh. 

“What?” she hisses. 

The apparition says nothing, its smile widening to stretch too widely, the remaining skin on its cheeks stretching and ripping. It waits, expectation snapping through the Force, and Ahsoka reels. 

_You cannot re-become something you already are._

“And my masters?” she asks, voice hushed. She’d felt it - when Obi-Wan dissolved into blue-green mist, his presence blending into the Force in the air, and when Anakin had collapsed into shadows, his presence dissolving into the forms of the ship, they’d become One with the Force, too. Not in the same way she had - they hadn’t died.

But then again, she had died, and she’s still here. 

The figure raises its hands, fingertips decaying to show the white bone underneath, and it gestures. “They became One with the Force,” it says. “They may not re-become.” 

Ahsoka hears what’s unsaid. 

_You died once. You can’t die again._

And Ahsoka jerks awake from her bed, gasping. 

_What_?

No.

No, no, no. 

It’s impossible. 

Immortality is not possible. 

(But the Force Wielders were nearly immortal, weren’t they? They’d lived for hundreds of thousands for years.)

The possibilities whirl in her head, making her stomach hurt and her montrals ring, and she thinks again of the apparition that she had just seen. She thinks what terrifies her is not the fact that it had taken the form of a rotting corpse, but rather, the absolute certainty that she will never be like the apparition, that she will never die. She imagines herself, living long after everyone else around her has died and long after the stars burn out. She doesn’t want to think of herself, alone and mad, drifting in the darkness of space with dead stars and planets that have long crumbled to dust. 

Well, not entirely alone. She’ll be with her masters. And while that’s better, she can’t help but wonder how long they can last in a dead galaxy, billions of years after everything has died, before going mad. 

Morai hoots, sending her pulsing waves of calm Light, and she receives it gratefully. “Thank you,” Ahsoka murmurs. She wraps her arms around herself, savoring the warmth she feels from the white-gold convor that no one else can really see. 

For a few moments, there’s no one but her and Morai, just like it has been for the past couple of days. Nothing but Ahsoka and her thoughts, whirling relentlessly in circles.

She knows what’s a trick, and what isn’t. The gifts left to her from the Daughter had greatly deepened her connection to the Force. She had sensed the truth in the apparition’s words, no matter how much she wanted to deny it. Suddenly, a part of her wants to reject the Daughter’s gifts, so daunted is she by the revelation.

No. What good would it do to ruminate on could-have-beens? What-

Morai _shrieks_ , startling her out of her thoughts at the sudden warning that screams through the Force.

 _SHIELD!_ Morai screams, and Ahsoka wraps the Force around her in a protective bubble, acting on instinct before her mind can catch up. 

A split second later, her sector of the detention facility explodes, and thousands of tons of duracrete begin to rain down upon her head. 

\--

In the Council chambers, there is a spike of danger in the Force, and Obi-Wan Kenobi clutches at his temples as alarm and terror, sharp as a saber, shoots through his head as Ahsoka calls for help. 

\--

In the midst of a training session in the salles, Anakin stiffens, a scream wrenching out of his throat as his training bond with Ahsoka shouts in fear. 

In the same room, the same younglings he had been training cry out, their untrained senses - protected only by rudimentary shields - suddenly aware of the many lives that have just been extinguished. They do not know it, but nearly a quarter of the detention center is gone. 

\--

Fox is on break when it happens.

The building shakes, but his sector - the caf - is fine. He shouts through his comm to his brothers.

None of them answer.

\--

(In the sudden commotion, no one notices a hooded figure slinking away to the Temple, her mission accomplished.

She feels guilt, but not really.)

\--

The Chancellor pretends to jump at the sound of an explosion. The rest of his security detail flinches, too, and they immediately begin to shout orders in case there is another bombing. Coruscant police double down on their efforts, believing that this is the bomber’s third attack, when really, it is only the second.

As for Palpatine, he secretly savors what possibilities have unfolded. It would indeed be a shame if Padawan Tano had died in the blast - poor Anakin would be lost, looking for someone to blame. And if not, the explosion would certainly have gotten rid of some other undesirable open ends in the center - a few bounty hunters and the like - and it would serve as a distraction to prevent the Jedi from looking too closely at the explosion caused by the destroyed holocron. 

The holocron. Certainly regrettable, but no matter. Lord Vitiate had suggested the use of a home planet to complete the ritual, but Palpatine holds a certain… fondness for Naboo. As well, it would certainly be fitting if he were to choose a different world. 

Perhaps somewhere the Jedi revere? Not their Temple on Coruscant, certainly. Too public. But perhaps, a sacred place such as Jedha…

\--

Ahsoka grunts under the weight of hundreds of thousands of tons, held aloft by nothing but the Force. Her arms are extended, palms held upwards, and she falls deeply into the Force to prevent herself from being crushed to death. 

Or- crushed to near-death. Still, she’s certain she can be injured, and she doesn’t think she wants to have all of her bones ground to dust. She doesn’t really want to test how immortality works like this. Above her, she can feel the rubble pressing down, protesting against her grip in the Force. 

She’s too tired to even open her eyes or make a sound. 

She sinks, deeper and deeper into the ground and into the Force, and for a moment, she thinks that she might have been rescued. There’s light, shining here, light that could only-

No. A quick peek tells her that it’s coming from herself. Her skin is aglow, white-gold washing over the remains of her cell and the rubble pressing down relentlessly. She feels foolish - foolish for believing that there’s help, foolish for being the one to trick herself, foolish for somehow managing to get stuck under all this kriffing _rubble!_

Morai coos, a soft hoot telling Ahsoka that she’s not alone, but she can’t even bring herself to care. She’s directing all of her energy into holding up the rubble, and even then, she sinks to her knees, her back hunched as she bends underneath the weight of an entire building. In the corner of her eye, she sees a spot of white-gold in the Force, flying straight towards her chest-

Morai slams into her body and disappears, and Ahsoka gasps as a sudden strength fills her entire being, heat filling her from the top of her montrals to the tips of her toes, and she screams, her eyes flying open as she pushes the rubble upwards.

The cell around her is half-crumbled, dust covering the floor and the bed crushed under the weight of the fallen ceiling. Danger whispers to her, and though she cannot see them with her naked eye, she can sense the movements of the nanodroids that have burrowed deep enough through the wreckage as they make their way towards her, clicking maliciously, each of their little presences alight with danger. 

Already, she can tell that the burst of strength will fade momentarily, and soon she will either be crushed under the rubble or blown to pieces by the nanodroids. She looks around frantically - she can’t hold up the rubble _and_ push away the droids. They skitter towards her, through the pieces of rubble that cast long shadows-

The shadows. 

She shouts through her bond. 

_Master!_

\--

Obi-Wan feels the call, and he grips the seats of his armrests. 

He can’t do anything without alerting the Council of his abilities. Well - he can’t move physically. He’d felt the surge of power from her as she tapped into the gifts of the Daughter.

The Council cannot tell, but even from many klicks away, Obi-Wan is shielding Ahsoka, preventing her shining Light from giving her away. He’d nearly done so too late - he suspects that Yoda may have gotten a hint of Ahsoka’s true presence in the second before Obi-Wan was able to shield her, but he’s unsure. 

He’s also shielding Anakin, too. Obi-Wan can sense that his former padawan is slipping. _Strength now,_ he sends to Anakin through their bond, and he hopes that it is enough. 

\--

Yoda did sense it, but he does not notify the rest of the Council. The words of Qui-Gon echo in his head, reminding him not to interfere.

_This is a path they must walk alone._

\--

Sidious senses it, too, but he is in the company of a Jedi Master. He cannot extend his senses without notifying her of his power. 

He grits his teeth, and pretends that all is well. He will trace this presence later in meditation. 

\--

Anakin is already bolting through the hallways, looking for places that are without cameras or people. Obi-Wan’s presence is in the back of his mind, tethering him to reality and preventing him from just leaping into the closest shadow, gargoyle wings and wild golden eyes on display for all to see. 

And finally - _finally -_ he makes it into the privacy of his own quarters, and the moment the door hisses shut, he’s already in the shadows. He can sense Ahsoka, a shining beacon of Light that’s starting to waver in despair, and he leaps from the shadows of the remains of her cell and takes her back with him. 

\--

It’s so _cold._

Ahsoka doesn’t know how long she spends in the shadows. It presses into her mind, a cold slithery _thing_ that wraps around her limbs with the Dark. 

_Sister,_ it whispers. _Sister. Sister. Sister._

She knows Anakin has his arms around her, guiding her to a safe place, but she can’t feel them. She can’t even see him - all there is around her is cold, sending her tumbling head over heels into nothingness. Then there’s a surge of feeling, as if she’s surfacing from the depths of deep waters, and she emerges from the shadows into her quarters, never feeling so glad to suck the musty air around her. 

“Ahsoka!” Anakin moves his hands to grab her shoulders, staring into her face with worry. “Ahsoka, are you alright?”

She groans, wanting nothing more than a good nap on her bed, but she settles for falling into his arms for a hug. “I’ve been better,” she mumbles into his shoulder. 

(When leathery wings that are not her own wrap around her in an embrace, she doesn’t flinch. She relaxes, allowing herself to enjoy the company of an older brother.)

In her mind, a quiet poke from Obi-Wan inquires about her well-being, and she sends him an _I’m okay, don’t worry_ immediately. The relief she feels from him is immediate, washing over her like a soothing balm of warmth, chasing away the remainder of the chills she feels from the shadows. 

“There were nanodroids approaching me,” she mutters, and Anakin stiffens, his incredulity spiking in the Force. “I think whoever it was wanted it to look like a- a suicide blast. From me.”

It makes her extremely uneasy when the Force rings with truth at her words. 

“We’ll find who it is,” he growls, and she shudders as the temperature of the room drops by a few degrees. 

She hopes she finds them before Anakin does. 

(She pretends it isn’t because she’d rather give them some justice from her own hands.)

\--

As the Council discusses the best course of action to deal with the explosion, they continuously receive reports, be it from Jedi who are simply checking in from missions or from updates from their own troops. Much of these are set aside for later consultation, but one name in particular catches Mace’s eye. 

_Quinlan Vos._

Mace’s eyes widen. Perhaps Vos’ skills in psychometry could prove useful in finding the culprit. 

Yoda’s voice breaks into his thoughts. “Master Windu, on your mind, what is?” 

Mace looks up to see the rest of the Council staring at him with worried eyes. A quick scan in the Force tells him that some of his emotions have leaked into the Force, distracting the rest of the Councillors. He offers an apologetic look. “It has come to my mind that we may have a solution. Knight Vos has just returned from a long-term mission in the Outer Rim - his skills in psychometry may prove useful in identifying the culprit. What’s more, given how he’s been away for such a long period of time, his insight will be impartial.”

The room falls silent, the rest of the Jedi Masters sitting in quiet contemplation. Mace turns to the Force, asking it for guidance, and he receives nothing but a slight nudge to wait for his fellow Jedi to speak. 

“Would it be dangerous for himself?” From across the room, Obi-Wan speaks up, brow furrowed. “To be exposed to something that may be the source of much pain and death may be very taxing for Quinlan.” 

There’s truth in those words. Mace himself knows the pull of the Dark - he did not develop Vaapad on a whim. There is a reason his kyber is the colour of amethyst. 

“He must agree for us to proceed, of course,” Luminara says from her seat. “This risk should not be undertaken without his understanding - if we decide to include him in the investigation, I believe you would be well-suited to guiding him should something go wrong, Master Windu.”

He inclines his head in acknowledgement. In the room, the Force murmurs in agreement.

“Very well,” says Yoda. “Contact Knight Vos, we will.”

(They move on to a different topic. The Council is dismissed after the sun goes down, and Obi-Wan is assigned the task of investigating the course of the possible Sith Holocron. The Council is cautious enough not to let the investigation be cast aside in light of the sudden explosion at the detention center.)

\--

Once most of the Councillors have left the room, there is only Mace and Yoda, sitting in contemplation of recent events. 

“Fortify the Temple, against attack, we must,” Yoda says quietly, and had Mace been a lesser man, he would have whipped around in surprise. Instead, he merely raises an eyebrow, a slight questioning feeling leaking into the Force. 

“You worry that the Sith may be making their move?” he asks quietly.

“Know, I do,” Yoda says. “Remove the chips from the clones on Coruscant, unlikely, will it be, without drawing attention. Prepare for attack while we fight back with non-lethal means, we should. Their fault, it will not be.” 

In his near nine-hundred years, never has he felt a weight on his shoulders as strong as this. The very fate of the Jedi lies in precarious balance, held by a single thread, and Yoda is well aware that he may not be able to see the blade that cuts the string, so clouded are his senses.

He thinks of history. Of the sacking of Coruscant. The Jedi of three thousand years past had been nearly destroyed by the Sith, then, and the Temple was razed to the ground. He cannot allow that to happen. 

“I’ll see if I can… discreetly find a shield generator to prevent the Temple from being hit by artillery bombardment.” Mace shifts, moving to gaze out the window at the Senate Dome. “We will need to keep the Chancellor unaware of these dealings. If he has been influenced by the Sith, any reports to him may inadvertently hamper our progress.”

Something shifts in the Force - a hint, a nudge that there is something large that Yoda cannot grasp. He searches, but the thought is formless, falling through the fingers of his mind like sand. “Careful, we must be. Speak with Master Che, I will, and the healers. A non-lethal sedative, enough to temporarily incapacitate the clones, useful, it may be, in our defense.”

Mace nods. “Preventing loss of life while we protect ourselves.” His brows furrow, and Yoda feels a spark of fondness for his friend and former student. Mace had always made the same face when he was a padawan and thinking of a new plan. “I’ll go through the archives. I’ll see if there are any weapons we may use that are non-lethal and long-range to aid in our defense.”

Yoda inclines his head, sending Mace a gentle pulse of approval. Little more discussion on this topic will be fruitful - it is best to get started soon. 

As Mace stands and moves to head out, he suddenly stops before the door, curiosity and worry leaching into the Force. “And what of Skywalker and his padawan?”

Yoda frowns, knowing that Mace is not referring to the framing of Padawan Tano, but rather, the _other_ things he and Mace thought they had seen in the Council chambers. It is truly unnerving to see the manifestation of the Mortis gods walking the Temple, well-hidden as they are. But Qui-Gon had given Yoda advice, and he would do well to follow it. “A concern of ours, it is not,” he tells Mace, but the hardness in the Korun master’s posture does not soften. Yoda smacks him across the shins with his gimer stick, eliciting a yelp that is entirely unbecoming of the master of Vaapad. “The Will of the Force, for us to interfere, it is not. Faith, we must have.”

Faith, indeed. 

\--

**Now.**

War can be very good for business, but sometimes, it can also be bad. 

And this? News of treachery all around the galaxy? Horrible, horrible! But Hondo Ohnaka is a pirate, and he adapts. He always adapts. 

Well, alright. Fine. He’d known this was coming. His survival instincts had told him to be far, far away, preferably in a neutral system and stealing- no, no, _liberating_ some wonderful goods, but his good friends Kenobi and Skywalker had recruited him and his crew to pick up any straggling Jedi in whichever sector he’d found himself in. And, mind you, Hondo had been very reluctant, but when Skywalker had sighed and offered him a synthetic kyber crystal that was graciously liberated from one of their precious stores, how could Hondo possibly say no?

Well, that, of course, and around twenty crates of corellian rum. When Hondo inquired where exactly Skywalker had gotten such a large shipment, the Jedi had smirked and given no other response. 

(He receives news of one of Gardulla’s ships having been ransacked a week later, the slaves freed and the cargo gone.)

The prospect of facing not just the droid army but also the clone army is daunting. Daunting, even for Hondo Ohnaka! Two armies is never good for profit, especially when they are firing on you. But he had faced an irate Count Dooku as well as Kenobi and Skywalker, and had survived. That must count for something, yes?

What? Are you telling Hondo to _double-cross_ them? That he should just be off with the payment and not uphold his part? No, no, no. When Hondo Ohnaka makes a deal, he holds up his end of the deal. He has a _code,_ thank you very much! 

Okay, fine. He was promised a bonus for each Jedi he’d manage to save. But still. He is an honorable pirate!

As it happens, he is in the Quelli Sector, and he’d received word of the treachery just moments ago. Wonderful! Now he can finally test out the properties of this synthetic kyber once modified to fit into his blaster. He has a good feeling about this.

The job - ahem, the wonderfully noble rescue - goes splendidly. Many explosions, many firefights, and many, many chances to test out his new blaster modification. It is amazing! It packs the equivalent power of five blasters into one without overloading his weapon. He must be careful, though. It certainly draws attention, and it just wouldn’t do if Hondo were to shoot an enemy and then accidentally shoot one of his men since the blaster bolt went clean through his intended target. 

Hah! Hondo? Careful? Of course! He is always careful. Always. 

“Come quickly!” he shouts at the Jedi. The kiffar - Hondo thinks the Jedi is a male kiffar - spares him a glance, running at full speed and deflecting blaster shots. It is a little confusing - it seems as though there is a squadron of clones at the Jedi’s side, fighting with him, yet they shoot at another squadron with a different colour.

Eh. Whatever. All this treachery business is making Hondo’s head hurt with feelings and confusion. 

The Jedi runs closer and closer, giving a signal to his men, and they make it on board Hondo’s ship. They take off to the lovely sound of blaster bolts giving chase, too late to make a difference.

Wonderful, wonderful! One Jedi saved. Who knows how many to go. Skywalker and Kenobi hadn’t been very specific, not really, but their young padawan had taken Hondo aside and told him with perfect seriousness that he would rescue five Jedi and three padawans. 

He’ll never admit it, but in the moment, she’d reminded him of the space-angels he’d heard of. Tall tales, of course, but he could have sworn that she was one of them right there, her skin glowing white-gold and her wings spreading to blind his eyes, shining across the walls of the room. Her mouth had looked _wrong,_ sharp like the beak of some animal, and she’d glared at him with a thousand eyes that told him with absolute certainty that he better save the number he’d just been given. 

Ooh. Okay. No, no, no. No focusing on the past. Focus on the job- ah, the rescue!

The kiffar Jedi is looking at Hondo suspiciously, lightsaber blade extinguished but the weapon still in hand. “Who are you?”

“I am Hondo Ohnaka!” he declares proudly. At the look on the kiffar’s face, Hondo deduces that his name indeed does mean something to this Jedi. “You must know Kenobi, yes? He and I are great friends!”

“Oh, I’ve heard of you, alright,” the Jedi grumbles. “You are without a doubt the _worst_ pirate I’ve ever heard of.”

He says _worst_ in such a way that’s not very flattering to Hondo, but he decides to take it as a compliment. “But you have heard of me!” he exclaims. “Now, come, who do we have the pleasure of being acquainted with?” 

“It’s Vos,” the Jedi - Vos - grunts. “Hand me your blaster.” 

Hondo thinks about protesting - he really does consider it - but the posture of the Jedi and his remaining troops show that they have little patience. At his side, one of Hondo’s men - Jiro - hesitates. “Are you sure that’s a good idea, boss?” Jiro asks as Hondo hands over the blaster. 

Hondo waves him off. 

Vos holds the blaster, brow furrowed, as his men and Hondo’s men stand there in silence. After the thirty second mark of standing in silence, it starts becoming a bit awkward. 

What? Hondo is not really a… quiet man. He knows how to be stealthy, certainly, but there’s no need for stealth here inside the ship at the moment. 

The Jedi finally opens his eyes, tossing the blaster back carelessly. “He’s trustworthy, alright,” Vos mutters to his men, jerking his head towards Hondo. Then he pauses. “Well, as trustworthy as a pirate can be.”

Hondo gasps, putting a hand over his heart. “My friend, you wound me! I would never back out of a job.” He holsters his blaster, showing the Jedi a sign of trust. “I am an honorable man!”

Vos rolls his eyes. “You’re only honorably because Obi paid you in _kyber,_ Ohnaka.”

Good point. “Still, I do not back out on my deals, my friend! And a friend of Kenobi is a friend of ours!” He gestures to Jiro, and together, they begin to make their way to the cockpit, Vos and his men trailing warily behind them. “Now, come. We have more of your Jedi friends to save.”

The walk to the cockpit is fast and silent, the clones looking warily at all of Hondo’s men. He refrains from commenting - they look a little trigger-happy, and it wouldn’t do to make them angry. Oh, well. It’s understandable. 

“Are there any more of you in the sector?” Hondo asks once they’ve settled into the cockpit. 

“Aayla,” Vos mutters. “She was on one of the moons.”

“Ah, that’s not very helpful,” Hondo volunteers. “There are eleven moons.”

Vos’ gaze is withering. A lesser man would have stepped back. Not Hondo, though - he’d faced Dooku’s stare and lived. Instead, he grins. All the Jedi are such fun to joke with.

“There’s no _time_ for jokes, Ohnaka,” Vos says, his voice strained. Hondo gestures, and Jiro pulls up a star map, the planet and its eleven moons illuminated in a gentle red of a holomap. “There. How quickly can we get to it?”

“Five minutes.” Hondo gestures to his pilot, who promptly pushes the ship forward, making the clones stagger on their feet. “How many should we expect, Master Jedi?”

Vos’ face is drawn tight, a picture of worry. “It’s just her.”

Ooh. That’s bad. “No men?”

The Jedi shakes his head. “They were not-” he cuts himself off, and refuses to say more. 

Eh, whatever. One more Jedi, one more bonus. 

\--

They find the twi’lek Jedi, half-dead and with an arm that’s next to useless with the blaster holes that have nearly blasted it off, but she’s alive, and that’s what matters. She stumbles into Vos’ arms, her still-functioning arm falling limp as his lightsaber flashes to deflect blaster fire. Around him, his men fire one stun blast after another, covering their retreat and incapacitating the brainwashed clones. 

As for Hondo, he has delegated himself to taking down the artillery cannons. He’s having too much fun, he thinks, but he doesn’t really care. A single blaster shot that can take out a cannon? Splendid, splendid! He needs to remember to thank Skywalker for the little fragment of kyber the next time he sees him. 

“Do you have bacta?” Vos snaps. The ship shudders as they make their getaway, pounded by blasterfire, but luckily, all of the heavy artillery had been taken out. 

Hondo sighs. “Bacta is _costly,_ Vos,” he says, but before the kiffar can draw his saber to make some threats, Hondo waves his hand. “Jiro, give the Jedi some bacta - we wouldn’t want a dead one on our ship, eh?”

Jiro smirks. “Right on it, boss,” he says, and he disappears to the back of the ship. 

Okay, fine, Hondo might be motivated by the payment for each live Jedi he’ll deliver back to Kenobi and Skywalker, but he’s not _heartless._ He’ll just collect compensatory payment after for expenses. 

The twi’lek - Aayla? - is limp in Vos’ arms, breathing heavily as her eyes are squeezed shut to ward off what must be a horrible pain that is afflicting her. He holds her like a father would hold his daughter, worry for her health and anger at the hurt inflicted leaking from every inch of his body language. 

Hondo looks away to give them privacy for the moment. A father was not somebody he’d ever had - sweet mother had been a wondrous teacher for all things thievery, but father had been too hooked up on spice to be any good. Eh, whatever. Hondo’s quite happy where he is now. 

Jiro returns with the bacta and some bandages, passing them off to one of the clones. They treat the twi’lek, and Hondo notes with some curiosity that she’s mumbling about some man named Bly. A clone sweetheart, maybe? Naughty, naughty! Jedi aren’t supposed to have sweethearts, from what Hondo knows. Not that he cares. 

“I catalogued the proper costs, boss,” Jiro tells him. “Just the way you told me to do it, of course.”

 _Proper_ cataloguing when charging extra expenses for a job means marking it up by 1.2 times its original cost, of course. Hondo grins. “Well done! Now-”

Anything he means to say is promptly cut off when the ship jerks, throwing most of them off their feet. Mercifully, the twi’lek Jedi is already on the ground and in the arms of Vos, so nothing terrible happens to her. 

“We’re under fire from Republic forces, boss!” The speakers crackle as the ship lurches again, moving to avoid blasterfire. 

“Understood,” Hondo snaps into his comm. He turns on Vos. “Is the entire sector filled with hostiles?”

Vos shakes his head. “No. My flagship is safe, but it may fall under fire the moment we’re seen landing inside it.” He swallows, face filled with concern. “We need to get onboard, though. My padaw- Knight Secura needs the medical facilities there.” 

Ah, interesting! So she was his apprentice. Hondo files that away for later contemplation in case it’s of any use. “Do you have coordinates?” 

The ship lurches again, and Hondo falls onto Jiro. 

“Sorry, Jiro,” he chuckles, standing again patting his man on the shoulder. Jiro rolls his eyes. 

“I’ll get you them,” Vos growls. “Just make sure we don’t die first.” 

\--

It takes a lot of maneuvering and some damage to the exterior hull to get to Vos’ flagship. Thankfully, they set down alright, and Secura is immediately taken by the medics on board. As Vos and his men turn to leave the ship, the kiffar pauses, and faces Hondo. 

“Thanks,” he grunts.

“Of course!” Hondo replies easily, and Vos rolls his eyes with a huff. 

“We’ll search the upper end of the Sector for survivors,” Vos says. “You can take the lower end.” He flicks a datachip at Hondo, who catches it in surprise. “Coordinates for survivors. I pulled the data from known missions in this sector.”

“Wonderful!” Hondo tells him, and Vos leaves without another word. 

\--

The datachip is filled with not too many coordinates, which makes their search siginifacntly easier. 

It’s still a bit of a hassle. But, if young Padawan Tano had been correct in her prediction, he should end up with three more Jedi and their apprentices saved. 

Ah, wonderful profit. Hondo thinks of the rewards, and orders his men to move forward with the rescue. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The upper end of the Quelli sector is where Dathomir is located. Who knows if Quinlan will run into Asajj?
> 
> Okay. So. 
> 
> The fic updates will have to slow down for the next two weeks. It’s gotten to the point where I’m actually spending more time with the fic than with my homework, which is a bit of a problem, especially given how finals are around the corner and I'm hoping to apply to grad school this coming year. I likely won't be able to update this Friday, and I'm sorry for that, but school takes precedent.
> 
> After the next couple of weeks, though, they’ll hopefully pick back up! The entire story is outlined, part on paper and part in my head, and I already have some snippets for later chapters outlined. It’s just a matter of how much time I can reasonably spend on it without shoving all school responsibility to the side. 
> 
> As always, feel free to follow me @revenge-of-the-shit on tumblr to look at some behind-the-scenes thought processes, shitty edits, shitposts, and updates.


	14. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the past, the investigation of the Temple Bombing draws to a close in a terrifying conclusion. 
> 
> In the now, there are two figures who would have been very important to the Empire that reflect on their impressions of Palpatine's betrayal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god. Finally. It's here.
> 
> Unbeta'd, as usual.
> 
> I ask that you do please read the endnotes for notes on a character's portrayal in this story.

**Then.**

He finds them huddled together on the couch, one of Anakin’s arms wrapped protectively around his Padawan as she shakes and shakes and shakes. 

She’s mumbling, her words shaky. “-nanodroids. There were nanodroids. They were-” She cuts off as she looks up, seeing Obi-Wan walking through the doorway. “Master Obi-Wan!”

“Are you alright?” He asks. 

She’s alive. She’s probably not really alright, but he needs to ask - for his own sake, to know that she will be alright. 

“Not at my best,” she admits. The tremor in her voice hasn’t lessened.

“She held up the rubble by herself,” Anakin says. His eyes shine gold in the dim light of the room. On the floor, his shadow flickers, the edges of it blurry and dancing between a shape that’s half-human and half- _other_. “From what I saw, it was probably hundreds of thousands tons of metal and duracrete.”

“But there’s more, isn’t there?” Obi-Wan asks. He sits beside Ahsoka, patting her uncertainly on the shoulder. He’s never been any good at comforting anyone, but she seems to appreciate it, the corners of her mouth ticking up and a small sliver of happiness curling in the Force. 

“Yes,” she says, and she seems calmer. The tremor in her voice has lessened and she sits up, her eyes meeting Obi-Wan’s. “There were nanodroids making their way through the rubble. I think… they were trying to reach me. To implicate me in something.”

“We think whoever it was tried to frame Ahsoka for a suicide bombing,” Anakin says. “Even if- if she’d died- we think it’s possible they would have tried to make it look like the explosion came from her.”

Ahsoka flinches at Anakin’s words. Of course - she’d just nearly died. 

(Again.)

“Will you be investigating on your own time?” Obi-Wan asks him. Left unsaid is the way Anakin will search the Temple. 

(There are many shadows in this place, after all.)

Anakin jerks his head once, and that’s all Obi-Wan needs to know. 

But there’s something else they need to consider. “But how will you explain that Ahsoka has disappeared when by all rights, she should either be dead or trapped underneath the wreckage?” Obi-Wan holds up a hand, stalling a snarling protest from Anakin. “I am not saying that you should have left her there.” He turns to Ahsoka. “Quite frankly, Ahsoka, I am very glad that you are here - but we must consider that the absence of your body may either implicate you in the bombing or reveal to the Order the legacies left behind by the Force wielders.”

Sheepishness leaks into the Force from Anakin as he subsides, an apology on his lips, but Obi-Wan sends him a wave of _understanding_ that has him faltering. 

Then Ahsoka blurts out, “I can’t die,” and Obi-Wan freezes in his tracks. 

_What?_

Beside her, Anakin stiffens, and Obi-Wan tries to find a way to reason it out. Instead, what comes out of his mouth is a stuttering, “Pardon?” wrought with uncertainty and worry. 

“I-” She bites her tongue, visibly forcing back her words, and she shakes her head, her lekku swaying with the motion. “It doesn’t matter for now. I’m sorry for my outburst, but we have other things to worry about, like what you said. We need to figure out how to explain my absence.”

Obi-Wan stares at her, speechless, the implications of the outburst whirling in his mind. 

As for Anakin, his shock snaps through the Force, tendrils of Darkness cracking through the room in a barely controlled manner. “Ahsoka, what do you mean, _you can’t die?_ ” 

Obi-Wan can only stare. Emotions flash through Ahsoka’s face, guilt warring with fear, and Obi-Wan finally gathers himself together enough to speak, releasing his emotions into the Force. “While this certainly warrants a discussion that should not have been brought up at this moment, Ahsoka is right, Anakin.” Obi-Wan can sense that there’s more to what Ahsoka had said - something that pertains to the three of them - but he pushes it aside. In front of him, Ahsoka inclines her head, accepting the gentle rebuke. “We need to focus on the situation at hand. You both need to find a way to make sure Ahsoka isn’t found missing underneath the wreckage.”

Anakin catches on, then, and he frowns. “What about you?”

“I’ve been assigned to investigate the explosion at the Chancellor’s office. Discreetly,” he adds on, and Anakin’s eyes narrow. 

“When will you tell them?” he asks. 

And at his side, Ahsoka demands, “ _What?_ ”

Right. She hadn’t been told. 

The way the conversation is currently moving about, bouncing from one startling revelation to another, is enough to give Obi-Wan a headache on a good day, but they do not have the opportunity to sit about and discuss this slowly - no matter how much they want to. They need to move quickly. 

“The Chancellor’s office was attacked by an unknown assailant late last night,” he tells her. “The Council believes it was an attack from the real Temple Bomber.” 

Her brows furrows at the mention of the Temple Bomber, then widens as she catches on to what he hasn’t said. “You said the Council believes-”

She cuts herself off, surprise colouring the Force as she seems to put two and two together. Her eyes widen and she whips her head around to stare at Anakin. “I sensed something from you at that time,” she says, eyes wide. “Master, what did you _do?_ ”

Anakin’s gaze darkens, the golden colour of his eyes shining a little too brightly in the dimming light of the room. “There was a Sith Holocron in the Chancellor’s office,” he tells her, and she gapes at him. “I destroyed it.”

Emotions swirl around her, and through his bond with her, Obi-Wan catches hints of what she must be feeling - horror at the presence of the holocron, incredulity at Anakin’s actions, and even a hint of indignation that she wasn’t included in such a reckless plan. 

Then she shakes her head, and with a great self-control worthy of the best Jedi Knights, she carefully releases her emotions into the Force to focus on the situation at hand. “I- Wow.” She takes a breath, and exhales, jabbing her finger first at Anakin, then Obi-Wan. “We are talking about this when this is over. But for now, we need a plan.”

Obi-Wan is struck, then, by her self-control, and how he thinks that she’s worthy of her trials already. Privately, he marvels at how much she’s grown. Force, that makes him feel old - his grandpadawan, already approaching Knighthood. 

“Alright,” he says, and they begin to work. 

\--

As they plan, Ahsoka pulls out a datachip from her belt, handing it to Anakin. 

“Commander Fox gave this to me,” she tells him. “The real bomber tried to frame me again before the second explosion. He found evidence that I was being framed and put the backup here.”

She doesn’t think the datachip is necessary - not for the courts. There’s a hunch that she has that it won’t be used to prove her innocence as it won’t be needed. But what it represented symbolically had helped her greatly - it meant that she was believed in, not only by her masters, but by other people too, and that was enough to make her hold hope. It was enough to help her calm herself. 

Still, it’s good to give it to someone she can trust. Just in case. 

“Who’s on this case?” she asks Obi-Wan as they plan.

“Master Allie is in charge, although Quinlan will be investigating the explosion as well,” Obi-Wan mentions, and Anakin raises a brow. “He’s been assigned due to his talent in psychometry. Anakin’s presence could very well be explained out of concern for you.” 

It’s entirely inappropriate, but Ahsoka can’t help the small flicker of amusement she feels within her. Padawan gossip in the Temple had all but confirmed that Quinlan Vos is the Jedi that flirts with everyone almost as much as Master Kenobi does, and rumor has it that when they are together, the sheer number of thinly-veiled expletives that ends up flying around is the stuff of legend. 

Thankfully, Master Kenobi doesn’t seem to catch on to her train of thought. Unfortunately, Anakin does, and he sends to her an amused jab through their bond that has her shaking her head. 

(In the back of her mind, the vision of her future nags at her, but she pushes it aside. 

_Not yet. Not yet._ )

Then she remembers something else, and her amusement fades. “And what about Maul?” she asks, and winces when her Masters stiffen. 

A beat of silence. 

Then- “We’ve put it off until after this investigation is over,” Obi-Wan huffs, frustration lacing his voice. His lips are pressed in a thin line as he ponders the situation. “As of now, we have no leads, and we’re already spread thin as is. Master Yoda hopes for us to pursue the case when there’s time.”

“Another reason to catch the real _sleemo_ who framed Ahsoka, then,” Anakin growls, and she couldn’t agree more. 

\-- 

When Obi-Wan arrives at the scene of the Chancellor’s office, he’s struck by how different it looks in the aftermath of the explosion. What once was a clean, open space is now littered with dust and debris, chunks of the wall disappeared and the floor unstable with chunks of plaster ranging from the size of pebbles to a sofa. Luckily, there’s no smell that usually accompanies explosions of such a scale - anybody who would have been working here had been back at their homes and sleeping, and as such, there were no casualties.

But one. 

Even after many hours, the stink of the Dark Side lingers in the air, making Obi-Wan choke back bile as discreetly as he can without alerting the working Coruscant police to his unease. It’s subtle but it’s there, crawling over his skin with slimy tendrils of cold that hiss at him. 

He can’t believe he’d missed this before. 

It’s so obvious, the rage and hatred swirling lazily in the air following the aftermath of the explosion. Yet, even with his knowledge of the Sith Holocron, the tendrils of the Dark Side moving about the wreckage could easily be mistaken for the lingering effects of a Dark Jedi. Had he not known better - had Anakin not told him, and had Mace not returned with the sliver of the holocron - he may have even mistaken this as another attack by the Temple Bomber. 

He’d questioned why the investigation hadn’t been given to another Jedi Master off-planet, but Master Yoda’s reasoning had been sound. The knowledge of the Sith Holocron could not go beyond the Council, which narrowed down the number of potential candidates to investigate this significantly, and what’s more, Obi-Wan has a reputation. He’d only seen the tabloids once, of course, early in the war when he didn’t know better, but in this case, it had worked in his favor. After all, the odds of the Negotiator being behind the suspected bombing are so low it’s virtually none. Hence, he was the best choice out of the rest of the Council to investigate this.

It works well when he works with the Coruscant Police, too, who are more than eager to cooperate for a picture or a signature for their children. Which is why he nearly lets his guard down when one of them comes to him with a report of nanodroids. 

“I’m sorry?” he asks, nonplussed. 

“Nanodroids, sir.” The woman taps on her datapad a few times, zooming in and pointing at several key spots. “We found traces of them - deactivated - in the wreckage. It stands to reason that some of them were faulty and didn’t go off in the initial blast.” 

Obi-Wan frowns, staring at the report. He’s absolutely certain that the nanodroids didn’t cause the explosion.

But he can’t reveal that. 

Instead, he asks, “Is there blast residue present from the droids?”

“That’s the thing.” The woman scowls, gesturing to certain marks on the rubble. “There’s no blast residue that would indicate an explosion caused by this type of explosive, but it’s something that could have been wiped away during the initial sweep of the scene.”

She doesn’t say it out loud, but he can hear her thoughts as she fumes at the incompetence of some of her colleagues. 

“Interesting,” he mutters. There’s a bad feeling forming in his stomach - an inkling of foreboding, as if there is something larger that he cannot grasp behind this. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. Hopefully, this will bring us a step closer to finding the true culprit.”

He needs to meditate. 

\--

When Anakin arrives at the scene of the explosion - in body, rather than through the shadows - he struggles to press down on the anger that seems to rise too easily. 

He’s seen this scene so many times before in battle - broken duracrete, the shouts of victims and the smell of blood and dust, steel poles sticking out haphazardly around this area. But it’s a scene of destruction that should have never shown on Coruscant. This blast is many times larger than the attack on the Temple - either the Temple Bomber had gotten desperate, or, more likely, they had several contingencies in place.

And to know that Ahsoka had nearly been killed - that she would have been killed had it not been for the gifts of the Daughter-

He sucks in a breath, and releases his emotions into the Force, pushing away the image of her still body on Mortis.

She’s alive. And that’s what matters. 

( _Is she really, though?_ )

They’d found a space underneath the rubble that had been mostly stable and close enough to both the surface and her cell for her to be found quickly by rescue teams without it being too suspicious. He’d been reluctant to bring her back there, but she had been firm. 

“I’ll be fine, Master,” she’d said, and her trust and confidence had shone through the Force, a bright white-gold heat that had chafed against his own presence. “I’m strong enough to catch myself if anything goes wrong. And what’s more, I trust you to find me if I need you.”

That didn’t make him hate the plan any less. As it stands, the anxiety he barely represses in the Force isn’t fully faked. 

As he isn’t officially involved in the investigation, he finds himself standing behind the barriers set up for civilians. He’s dimly aware of the whispers, of the flashes of holocams as other civilians take pictures of him. _The Hero With No Fear!_ They hiss at each other. A few try to approach him for an autograph or picture, but the stormy look on his face seems to dissuade them from trying. 

It might be a karking pain in the ass to deal with whatever the media might spin out of his appearance today, but he doesn’t care. He’s long learned to ignore those articles.

Being a media celebrity is a double-edged sword. It might give him a reason to be here ( _Valiant, trying to solve the crime against his people,_ the media might say), but it also means his every move is over-analyzed ( _Why is the Hero With No Fear REALLY at the scene of the crime? Click here to find out!_ ). Which means that a better part of his energy is spent making sure his appearance to all people watching is wholly and entirely _human_.

It’s harder than he thought it’d be, without Obi-Wan’s help. But he can manage. 

Of course he can. He’s the Chosen One. 

“Knight Skywalker!” 

Master Allie’s voice cuts into his thoughts and he glances up, seeing her wave him over. One of the Coruscant Police lifts the tape and he steps through, allowing the Force to guide his feet through the rubble. “Are you well?” she asks him, concern gently flowing through the Force. “I could sense your worry from a distance.”

He grimaces, pulling back at the emotions that he knows are leaking into the Force. It’s a task to be able to reply without snapping, but he manages it - barely. “My padawan is under there, Master Allie.” He replies, gesturing to the wreckage. “I’m worried for her.”

Her face is impassive, but in the Force, a sliver of sympathy makes its way towards him, a small comfort in a place that still echoes with screams of the victims of the bombing. “Trust your worries with the Force,” she tells him, and he tries not to grimace. That’s the least comforting thing to say. “Can you sense her?”

He jerks his head in a sharp nod. “She’s alive,” he tells her. And just to make sure - just for his own sake - he sends a questioning _are you okay_ through his bond with Ahsoka.

She sends back a cheerful affirmative, and he sighs. 

This is going to be a long wait.

\--

When Ahsoka finally sees the Coruscanti sky again, over half an hour after Anakin had brought her back underneath the rubble at her own behest, she’s aware that the relief that’s pulsing off of him in waves isn’t faked. 

“Ahsoka!” he calls, and she’s being helped out of the rubble by the Coruscant rescue workers, their presences working in tandem to pull her and other survivors out of the wreckage. Beside them, Master Allie is standing, eyes closed, directing the other workers to search places where she can sense other survivors. 

When she stumbles out, the tiredness she feels isn’t faked, either. Her entire body is caked with dirt and dust, but what’s more, the half-hour she had spent under the rubble with nothing to do had had an effect that she hadn’t anticipated.

With the Daughter’s gifts, her senses had gotten stronger.

Which meant that she could sense every presence that had disappeared. 

Which meant that she could feel the pain of every survivor that was slowly suffocating under the rubble.

Which meant that she had spent half an hour hearing nothing but screams in the Force surrounding her on all sides, unable to help any of them even though she knew she had the ability to. 

That, combined with the knowledge that someone had betrayed the Order and was trying to frame her for something as atrocious as this-

No. This is not the time to lose control. She draws on the Force, on the warmth of the Temple that stands not too far away, and she releases the turmoil she feels. 

Anakin grabs her by the shoulders, staring at her in concern. “Are you okay?” he asks.

She draws a shuddering breath, and raises her eyes to meet his. 

(His eyes are entirely blue, and in the reflection of her eyes that she can see in his, hers are blue too, not a hint of green there.)

“I am, thank you,” she tells him. 

The world feels sluggish around her. The stench of death curls around her in the Force, permeating the entire area with its cold embrace. Around her, she can sense the slight unease of Master Allie, carefully controlled with years of training, and further off, she can sense the unruly presence that is Knight Vos as he picks his way through the rubble during the investigation. They, like her, are uneasy with so much death surrounding this place, the Dark Side a constant murmur in the back of their minds. 

Anakin looks uneasy, too, but she knows it’s because of the destruction wrought here, and not because of the current of the Dark Side. 

Then one of the Coruscant Police says, “Padawan Tano, please come with me,” and he gestures to the transport that holds other prisoners of the detention facility that are to be transferred to a safer location, and the world seems to speed up again.

\-- 

Night falls on a Coruscant that’s in a little more turmoil than it usually is, but life goes on. The bustle of the night traffic hums along in the background of every citizen’s vision or hearing, the lights slowly dimming as most offices close for the night. But the lights are never fully out - even in the latest hours of the night, Coruscant is always alight with the people who work late shifts. 

As for sleep, it comes easily to some. Senator Amidala passes out the moment she hits her bed, exhausted after long weeks of pouring over increasingly frustrating legislation. Senator Organa has a restful night, happily relaxing as he enjoys a short week-long visit from his wife Breha. Artoo plugs himself in and powers down after a long day, and Rex sleeps soundly as he seizes the little break he has between missions. 

As for others, it comes uneasily. Many Jedi do not sleep well, the stench of the Dark Side lingering over the entire planet. Many spend their night in meditation, falling asleep only after they have found comfort in sinking into the Force after many hours. Master Windu arrives at his quarters at 0300 hours in the morning after having discreetly gotten hold of several shield generators for the Temple. Master Yoda meditates and has a quiet conversation with Qui-Gon Jinn, who seems more cryptic than helpful, much like he was in life. Master Kenobi meditates on the explosion at the Chancellor’s office, and finds much in his visions that he needs to think on. 

And as for one man, he does not sleep, but rather, he meditates, allowing the Dark Side to grant him strength. The webs of his influence span out in sticky red threads in the Force and he watches them carefully, examining what threads should be pulled, which ones should be cut, and which ones are best left alone. 

He focuses once again on the poison of dreams. It had worked so well, too, amplifying the dreams of young Skywalker’s mother to encourage his hatred and fear. It had worked again by amplifying the dream of the other young padawan who had bombed the Temple. Sidious had not truly been able to see what dreams he had created within his target’s minds - instead, like with Anakin, he had simply seen the seed of the Dark Side in their minds and had given it a push, nurturing it and allowing it to bloom. It was a work of art, almost. Something which he is pleased to see at work. 

Such a pity that young padawan would have to go. 

He’d already disposed of the Bothan that he’d paid to bring nanodroids to the scene of the explosion at his office. Once he is rid of the true Temple Bomber, then all loose ends will be tied up, and the explosion caused by the destruction of the holocron will be put off to a deliberate explosion caused by her, and no one would know better. 

No one, but the true destroyer of the holocron. 

Sidious growls. Despite his best efforts, he had not come any closer to discovering the reason behind the artifact’s destruction. 

But all is not at a loss. Since Umbara, Anakin had been turning more and more towards the Dark. Sidious had thought that it would take at least another year, but the campaign at Umbara had had better results than he had anticipated. 

He is pleased. 

But enough ruminations on that. Being gleeful over better results does nothing if he does not continue to act on them. Sidious turns back to his web of influence, poking and prodding at it in the Force, and he grasps at the strands which he calculates will provide him with the desired results. 

And so, he falls into meditation, and dives into the dreams of others. 

\--

The dreams have worsened for her. 

Following the bombing she had engineered at the detention center, she had felt a rush of power as she saw the destruction she had wrought. Yet it had done nothing to soothe her mind. Guilt rushes over her in a tidal wave, warring with her feelings of vindication and something else that she can’t quite pinpoint. 

In her dreams, she battles Knight Skywalker, only he’s not entirely _human,_ wavering in-between the form of a human and the form of a _demon,_ and his blade flickers between the azure of the Jedi and the crimson of the Sith. He roars at her for betraying his padawan, and she fights back with a desperate vigor. She leans deeply into the Force - into the part of it that’s been forbidden to her and all other Jedi - and she draws strength from her anger. But it’s not enough.

The dream always ends the same way. She lunges for the kill, and nearly makes it. It forces his hand and his blade finds a home in her chest and she jerks awake, the phantom pain of a lightsaber in her breast lingering from the vision. 

She’d been having this same dream for weeks. It had started as a small thing, easily brushed off as she had planned the bombing, but it had intensified following the manifestation of her plans. 

She jerks awake again from the same vision, her chest heaving. 

She needs to do something. She needs to do something. She needs to-

Fear claws at her chest, closing her throat and making it hard to breathe. She slams her shields up at her highest, ensuring that no-one in the Temple will feel her terror.

She needs to get rid of Knight Skywalker. There’s no other way. The dreams-

She takes a deep breath, then another, then another. 

She won’t let the dreams come true.

She won’t.

\-- 

In another section of the Temple quarters, Quinlan Vos dreams of the case. 

It’s not _uncommon_ for people to dream of whatever it is their mind had been on the entire day. Still, he has enough presence of mind in the dream to be annoyed at himself, because why can’t he just catch a break? He’d like to have a nonsensical dream that makes him laugh at the absurdity of it when he’s awake rather than a dream about the case he’s been investigating all day. 

Whatever. If the Force wants to tell him something, it can get on with it. He’ll take what he can to catch a break. 

When he wakes, he doesn’t remember much from the dream. 

(When he heads back to the scene of the crime, he thinks he sees something familiar, and he reaches out. He doesn’t ever realize that the familiarity came from seeing that thing in the dream.)

\--

Had Sidious lived in the time of the Old Republic, he would have been renowned as one of the most powerful Sith to have ever lived even during the times of Malak and Revan. His ability to subtly influence the minds of many through their dreams by amplifying the terror of their foresight speaks to a power similar to one of the strongest of Jedi, Bastila Shan, and her legendary Battle Meditation. 

And like the Sith Emperor before him, Sidious is able to influence even the mind of the Jedi’s Chosen One of his time. 

(In the Temple, Anakin tosses and turns, caught in a nightmare of someone else’s making. He dreams of Ahsoka’s terror as she was caught underneath the rubble, then of her still body on Mortis. He dreams of the explosion at the Temple, and in his dreams, Obi-Wan is caught in the blast. Anger and fear rises within him, turning into a constant companion that follows him throughout the rest of the week.)

The night passes. The sun rises. And Sidious smiles as he watches his plan begin its work. 

\-- 

**Now.**

As a Sentinel, he is nameless. He is with no identity and no face, with the same mask and robes and sabers as the others of his kind. As a Sentinel, no one can see his expressions, the twist of his lips or the narrowing of his eyes. As a Sentinel, no one sees his face - the face of a Pau’an, eyes clouded with the distrust of the Jedi Order. 

They deserve to fall. They deserve to be destroyed. 

The false accusation of Padawan Tano had proven to him the faults of the Jedi. Earlier than that, the death of two other Sentinels during the escape of Darth Maul had proven to him the absolute inadequacy of the Jedi. Their enemy had been held captive, there in the heart of their power, and still he had escaped. What fools. What inadequate, arrogant weaklings.

(In another universe, he is named the Grand Inquisitor of the Empire.)

He’d heard the broadcast of Palpatine’s betrayal. It had filled him with a deep hatred, both for the Chancellor and for the Council. He had scoffed. The Council had been so _arrogant,_ flaunting their love for the Force and their mastery of it, yet they had not even been able to sense a Sith Lord that they met with often. 

The revelation had also shifted his respect to Palpatine. For someone to be able to wield such power - well, it is appealing. Such power can bring order and stop war. For all the Jedi Order preached about compassion, they were too blind to use their power, too weak to see what they could do if they just _used_ their true power to bring about order to the galaxy. 

As a Sentinel, he is one of the many guarding the Temple. He, along with many others, are hidden, scattered amongst the many pillars and rooms to prepare for an ambush should the clones break through. 

He scoffs. _Fools._ The Order is fighting a losing battle. They’re too foolish to understand that the _smart_ thing would be to choose the right side. They’re too arrogant, too sure in the stagnant code they seem to hold close. But he knows better. 

He is but one person, one Sentinel in a Temple of fools. Regardless of their idiocy, they still do wield some power, and he alone will not be able to help Palpatine in achieving the fall of the Jedi without proper planning. 

Yet, he, too, wields power. He is a Sentinel. And what’s more, he is a Shadow. His work had shown him the power of the Dark Side and he had honed it in secret. And now, it is time to put his skills to use. 

Shadows are trained to avoid detection at all costs, especially in the presence of other Force-users. It is a simple matter to slip away from his assigned post with no one the wiser. It is a less simple matter to slip up behind other Sentinels and to catch them by surprise. After all, they are trained for such things. 

But they are Jedi. They are weak. And with each lightsaber he collects, their fear and anger at his betrayal strengthens him as they fall to his blade. He doesn’t need to take off his mask or to look into a mirror to know that his eyes, once a shining silver, are now a burning gold. 

He moves swiftly, erratically. It wouldn’t do to leave a trail of bodies. For each presence he extinguishes, for each time he uses the Dark Side to crush their throats before they can make a sound, he can sense a nearby Jedi moving to catch the new infiltrator. 

Yet they are incompetent. He moves swiftly, and is not caught. There are already a dozen bodies in his wake. There is no clear trail that he leaves - one dead in this quarter, another in a different sector. If he leaves a trail, it would be too easy for him to be caught. 

(In another universe, he turns on the other Sentinels as Vader marches on the Temple. In another universe, Darth Sidious takes note of his actions, and he becomes the first Inquisitor.)

More fall to his blade. He knows well how to be silent, how to move without being sensed by other Force-users. The Dark is so _inviting_ \- it makes his blood sing with each kill, the fear and suffering on Coruscant amplifying his power. 

(But with the Dark Side comes the folly of arrogance.)

“Sentinel.”

The voice echoes behind his back. He turns to find Jedi Master Luminara Unduli standing at the end of the hall. Under his mask, he bares his teeth, anger flickering within his chest at getting caught. Yet, there is also an exhilaration for the fight that is to come. 

“Jedi,” he growls, and he smiles, feral and gleeful. 

Her lightsaber blade is already alight, the emerald colour washing the walls with its hue. “Your rampage is at an end,” she declares, her body moving into the opening stance of Soresu. He scoffs at the gracefulness of her gestures. She will be nothing - weak, easily dealt with. But it will be fun to toy with her. 

He ignites his saberstaff, twirling it so quickly that it becomes a blur of light, and he leaps forward. She meets him blow for blow, wrist twisting expertly with just millimeters to spare. He strikes left, then right, then left again, slashing at her legs and her head as she twists and turns amongst the hallways. 

How weak. With each strike, she gives ground, her feet moving backwards as he pushes her back towards a window. All it will take is a moment of distraction, then one strong push, and she will be through the window - and the shields of from the generator - and easy pickings for the clones. 

Around him, he can sense the alarm of other Jedi as they begin to rush to their location, and he growls. _Incompetent._ They have been dueling for half a minute, and only _now_ do they begin to move. But that means he must win quickly if he is to survive long enough to join Palpatine. 

“Can you sense it, _Jedi_?” he taunts with each blow. His breaths come hard as he continues his relentless assault, battering at her shields as she avoids death by a hairsbreadth with every stroke. Even under her formidable shields, he can sense the pain, the anger, carefully repressed but there all the same. “The Order is falling. The Jedi will soon be no more.”

“The words of a halfwit,” she says dismissively, and he snarls, swiping low in a move that nearly takes her leg off. Even as she loses, she still holds herself with such arrogance. “Those lost today are with the Force - we are prepared to let go and to celebrate the life they have lived. Yet you and those who follow the Dark Side are weak to the promise of power.” 

So high and mighty. Her words enrage him, fuelling his power, and his saber cuts close this time, shearing off a part of her sleeve and leaving her shoulder with a shallow burn. She winces and he grins, knowing that her time is near. “Weak?” he laughs. His voice is distorted by the mask, yet even then, he knows she can hear the elation in his words. “It is the Council that has grown weak. You claim to be masters of the Force, yet even with all your power, the Dark Side has never been stronger.” Their blades flash, whirling in a deadly dance as she is pushed further and further backwards. 

And still she is haughty, unwavering in her faith in the Jedi. “It is with the Force what we could do,” she says, and he scoffs at her. Of course she believes the Council is blameless. “Our journey with the Force is nowhere near its end. As for you, I recognize your form. Your movements are sloppy, your steps unstable. Your arrogance in the Dark Side is nothing but an illusion.”

He snarls again. Enough with this charade - he will end this quickly. He feints to the left and she moves her saber to block him, and he slices to the right, certain in his triumph- 

But she is there, the emerald blade flashing expertly as she twists her body and cuts precisely into his left forearm whilst avoiding his strike. 

His blood boils. _She dares to do this?_ With a wordless roar, he lunges forward, his blades raining down on her relentlessly in a deadly hail that is sure to kill her. With each move, she begins to fall back, sinking lower and lower into the ground. 

Then she makes a mistake. A fatal mistake. An opening presents itself, and without hesitation, he plunges his saber downwards.

In another universe, he watches as she dies, and he uses her remains to lure other Jedi to their deaths. In another universe, she was his captive. 

In this universe, she is in her prime, in the heart of her power, and a long-practiced master of Soresu. 

In another universe, his arrogance is his undoing.

In this universe, it is the same. 

What he has forgotten is that she is a Jedi _Master_ for a reason. The opening is deliberate, and with an expert hand, she twists away with less than a quarter of an inch to spare, and her blade finds its home in his heart. 

_What?_

He tries to gasp, only he can’t. He stares at the pulsing blade, feeling not its heat but a cold numbness emanating from his chest, then at her, and her face softens as his hands fall limp and his saberstaff clatters to the floor. She deactivates her saber, catching him as he falls, and as the edges of blackness crawl into his vision, he finds he cannot loathe her for the weakness of compassion that she shows now. 

“Rest, Sentinel,” she murmurs. 

Then there is nothing.

\--

**Then.**

In the morning, as Quinlan rushes through the halls of the Temple whilst cursing himself for deciding to take too long to wake up, he turns a corner and runs straight into a Lasat Master. 

“Kriff!” he barks out, then he sees the Lasat’s padawan, a young human male of about twelve years of age with ginger hair, and he winces. “I’m sorry, Master-”

“Tapal,” the Lasat says, but his smile his gentle and understanding. “Knight Vos, is it?”

Quinlan winces. He knows he has a bit of a reputation in the Temple, and to prove his reputation as a maverick in front of a kid makes him feel a tad guilty. “Yes, Master.”

Just a bit. 

His lightsaber had fallen off his belt at the collison. He curses internally - he needs to get the damn hook fixed or else he’ll lose his saber eventually. Master Tapal’s padawan reaches for Quinlan’s saber to hand it to him. “I got it-”

Then the padawan freezes, his hand clutched tightly around the saber, and Quinlan’s blood runs cold. He knows that look. He’d had the same look on his face many, many times when he was younger and learning to control his abilities.

_Force, of all the times to find another kid that knows psychometry-_

His lightsaber has been through its fair share and back. It’s not absolutely _terrible_ , but for a twelve-year-old kid, it’s awful. 

Master Tapal is shaking his padawan, holding his shoulders gently in concern. “Cal?” he asks, voice rising. “Cal! Can you hear me!”

Then the kid - Cal - comes to, his eyes wide and his hands shaking, and he hands the saber back to Quinlan. 

“I’m sorry, Master Vos,” the kid manages. “I shouldn’t have-”

“No, no.” Taking the saber, he kneels, making sure that he’s at eye level with Cal. “It isn’t your fault. You got a talent, kid.” Glancing up, he stares at Master Tapal, who is watching with a wary eye. “Your padawan seems to have the ability of psychometry, Master Tapal.”

The Lasat master’s eyes come alight with understanding, worry fighting with pride as he looks at his padawan with an appraising eye. “Ah, I understand.” 

“Yeah.” Quinlan pats Cal on the shoulder, giving the kid a gentle smile. He remembers his days back when he learned to harness his own abilities of psychometry - days of headaches and pains, and finally, it had paid off, making many of his missions much easier. “It’ll be tough work, but you got this, kid.”

Cal smiles uncertainly back at him, the corner of the kid’s mouth pulled up in a half-smile. “Thank you, Master,” he mumbles, and a little part of Quinlan’s heart soars. The kid reminds him of Aayla in her early days of the apprenticeship, uncertain of her own power yet so kind and compassionate. 

Quinlan smiles at the kid, squeezes his shoulder, then stands, nodding to Master Tapal. “I must be off, Master Tapal. Take care of your padawan, will you?”

The Lasat laughs, a bright sound that sends warmth ringing through the Force. “Of course. May the Force be with you, Knight Vos.”

Cal echoes the statement. Quinlan salutes in response, and they go their separate ways.

\--

Ahsoka is exhausted. 

She hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep since before the explosion. After she had been taken away with the other prisoners, she had been led to an interrogation room, where she has been sitting since with her arms cuffed to the table. 

It’s been hours. The glare of the light above her hasn’t lessened at all, making her head pound with the constant beam that bears down on her relentlessly. Her arms and back ache from being confined to a chair in a stiff position overnight, and had she not been trained as a Padawan, she knows she would have cracked and started shouting for somebody to get her the kriff _out_ of here.

But she’s a Padawan. And what’s more, she’s not alone. Morai had returned soon after the explosion, a little dimmer but still there, a warm, comforting presence that keeps her grounded in this almost-nightmare. Being captured isn’t new - she’s been captured multiple times. She’s been beaten and shot at and she was literally killed on Mortis. 

But it’s something else when the ones that are holding her in her bonds and causing her pain are the ones she’s been fighting for since she became a Padawan.

The door opens, and a slimy presence walks in. 

Even when she’d rescued him at the Citadel, she hadn’t liked Tarkin at all, with the way he turned his nose at the Jedi and the clones and the beady dislike that had burned in his eyes. His presence now is completely unchanged - haughty, arrogant, with a perpetual sneer that makes her feel uncomfortable and nurses her hatred for some officials. “Padawan Tano,” he says, and she hates the way his voice sounds right off the bat, all silky and condescending, “I trust you are doing well?”

He put her in here. She’s absolutely certain that he’s the reason she’s been sitting, chained to the chair, for hours on end, but she bites back her retort and releases her frustration into the Force. “Captain Tarkin,” she says, inclining her head, and says nothing more. 

(She knows she isn’t really able to conceal her glare.)

His sneer is barely discernible, but in the Force, his disdain for her leaps into the air, a cold, rotten feeling that makes her shiver. If it were possible for non-Force-Sensitives to be Sith acolytes, she would swear that he is one of them, his presence so cold and filled with hatred and arrogance that she itches for her lightsabers. “I have a few questions that need to be asked. Standard procedure, as I’m sure you well know.”

Ahsoka nods her head, once. It wouldn’t do to speak unless necessary. 

Part of her wonders why Tarkin is so sure that she’s the suspect. She’s innocent, and the Council and her masters had defended her strongly. 

But she thinks she knows.

(If she doesn’t shield well enough, she can hear his thoughts - and the thoughts of the others milling about this sector of the building. The Daughter’s gifts have enhanced her senses a little too much.)

A successful conviction would certainly give him a lot of clout. Whether or not she’s innocent, she’s pretty sure he doesn’t care. And what’s more, she’s a Jedi, and she’s not human. All those count as negative strikes in his book. Combine that with her age, and he sees her as an easy target. 

But she can handle herself. She’s sure of it. 

“Well, then, if you do not have any more questions, let us begin.” Tarkin takes a seat across from her, his body language every inch the posture of a professional man going through standard procedure for his job. Yet, in the Force, his presence is a roiling, disgusting mass of arrogance, hatred, and lust for power, held together by a ruthlessness Ahsoka has only seen in the worst of the Separatist generals. “Three days ago, what were your whereabouts prior to your arrest?”

He’s being deliberately blunt, and he knows it. The lines in his eyes make her think of one of the predatory lizards in her homeworld - venomous, fast, and dangerous in ways you wouldn’t expect. 

“I was with the Jedi Council in the morning - I believe they can confirm my presence on that day,” she tells him. Behind her, Morai coos, and she draws strength from the spark of warmth she can feel behind her back. “I left to interview Letta after I was requested and I was accompanied by a group of the Coruscant Guard at all times. The clones left briefly when Letta asked to be alone - it was at that time I stopped her from getting killed.”

“You claim that she was being attacked by another Jedi?” he asks, voice oozing with suspicion, and she tries not to scowl.

“She was.” Her voice is firm. “I sensed a presence that had the intent to kill and I pushed it back. Immediately after, I went after that Jedi after calling for the guards and after talking to Master Skywalker through our comm. Following that, Master Skywalker accompanied me to the Council Chambers at the Temple.”

She leaves the story at that. Tarkin knows what happened next.

“I see.” Tarkin’s voice is professional, but underneath the surface of civility, Ahsoka can hear the condescending sneer in his tone. “But you were not able to apprehend this alleged Jedi, were you, Padawan Tano?”

She grits her teeth, then carefully unclenches her jaw, making sure her tone is even. _There’s no need to rub it in my face._ “No. I was not.” 

Condescending sleemo. 

“Unfortunate,” he says, only he doesn’t really sound that regretful, only dismissive. “During the pursuit, you were alone, were you not?”

Force. Every single word he says is dripping with disdain, as if he can’t find a reason he should even be bothered with interacting with her. “I was not followed by any clones,” she says carefully. “But if you check the cameras, I’m certain you’ll be able to track my movements during that time.”

“Unfortunately, the footage during that time has been corrupted by a slicer,” he says delicately, and she resists the urge to curse. _Of course it was._ “The fact remains that your presence is unaccounted for during a timeframe in which you may have been able to speak to CC-5869.”

This time, she can’t help herself. “I did _not_ mind-trick Trooper Stone,” she snarls, and though Tarkin is unflinching, she can sense a smugness emanating from him after having gotten a reaction out of her. “To even suggest that I would even commit such an act-”

“I suggested no such thing, Padawan Tano,” he says, raising an eyebrow, and she snaps her mouth shut, hating every way he looks down on her as if she’s an insect that he finds annoying and wants squashed. “I am merely stating the evidence we have on hand. And, do forgive me, but I must ask - where were you on the day of the explosion?”

She shifts, her hands pulling against the cuffs that have been chafing against her wrists since last night. Then she releases her anxieties and anger into the Force, drawing again on the strength of the Light she can feel from Morai and from herself. _There is no emotion, there is peace._ “At the time the explosion happened, I was asleep in my quarters.” It’s not enough - there’s no way to prove that she wasn’t asleep in her quarters, but at the same time, she’s innocent. She knows the truth. Surely, she’ll be released soon. 

“Alone?” Tarkin prompts, looking down at her from his nose. She holds back the urge to roll her eyes.

“Yes. But I live in the joint master-padawan quarters with Master Skywalker,” she says. “He should-”

“But the fact remains that your actions that night are not entirely accounted for,” he says smoothly. “You must understand, Padawan Tano, that there is little solid evidence to prove your innocence.” 

She swallows hard, fighting against the rising anger that bubbles into her throat and threatens to make her voice shaky. The Dark that leaks off of Tarkin is infectious, making the air feel poisoned with his cold ruthlessness. “But there is evidence I was framed,” she insists, pushing down the hysteria that’s beginning to rise. “Something happened to set off the alarms while I was in my cell. I never left!”

Something crosses Tarkin’s face - the shadow of annoyance - and she snaps her mouth shut. No matter what she does, Tarkin will dislike her - there’s no use losing her temper. It’ll only make things worse.

In the back of her mind, she clings to the knowledge of not just the Council’s, but also Commander Fox’s belief in her, and she relaxes. She has others - ones who are objective - to back her up. She knows this, and it spreads a gentle warmth through her, calming her hysteria and cutting through her anger.

She can do this. 

Before Tarkin can continue, a knock sounds on the door, and he turns to it in annoyance. “Yes?” he demands in a clipped tone.

The door opens to a haggard-looking clone officer and an impeccably-dressed zabrak female. “Sir,” says the officer, “Ms. Zakarma requested to be let in to see her client.”

A moment passes, and Ahsoka takes a moment to try not to smash her head against the table. 

She’d forgotten that she could get a _lawyer._

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

Her self-rebuke, however, is cut short at Tarkin’s reaction in the Force. Outwardly, his expression doesn’t change at all, but the moment the lawyer had shown up, his smugness had been cut through and his annoyance had increased tenfold. 

As far as Ahsoka’s concerned, kriff him. Karking bastard. Silently, she sends a thanks to Anakin and to Senator Amidala, who she’s sure is responsible for the appearance of a lawyer. 

“Of course. It would be my pleasure,” Tarkin says, sounding as if it is anything but. 

Behind Ahsoka, Morai hoots, and Ahsoka swears that the eyes of Ms. Zakarma flicker to where the convor is perched, invisible in the Force. 

Then Ms. Zakarma opens her mouth, and Ahsoka prepares herself to hold back a smile as the zabrak woman verbally rips into Tarkin. 

\--

When Vos finally arrives back at the scene of the bombing at the Detention Center, Stass Allie has been there for fifteen minutes already. “Sorry I’m late!” he says cheerfully, and she raises an eyebrow at him. 

“There is much to do, Knight Vos,” she admonishes. “Come, let us work.”

The air around this place is slick with death and pain. Normally, such an occurrence would prove distracting to any Jedi - the death toll here must have numbered in the dozens. But they are in the midst of war, and unfortunately, this scene is no longer unfamiliar to Stass. She sighs and releases her sorrow into the Force. 

The investigation is long and arduous, lasting long into the afternoon. After hours of pulling survivors from the wreckage and investigating for clues, Stass begins to wonder if they will be able to find anything to lead them to a suspect. There has been nothing thus far - perhaps they are looking in the wrong place? She stands, making to tell Vos that she wishes to meditate on their findings, before he straightens abruptly. 

“Are you well?” she asks curiously. 

He holds up a hand, cutting her off. To anybody else, such a rude action would be cause of irritation. To Stass, she watches, bemused, as he picks his way carefully around the rubble, allowing the Force to guide his path. “I think,” he says, and doesn’t continue. 

“I’m sure you do,” she teases, and he rolls his eyes. He reaches out, the Force swelling around him, and something flies into his hand and he closes his eyes. 

As he stands in the midst of a vision brought by his psychometry, Stass knows better than to stand around uselessly. She turns, holding out her palms to the still-unexplored rubble, and extends her senses. The rescue teams have made a good effort - around seventy percent of the survivors have been rescued, but there is still work to be done. She falls into the Force, counting the many flickering lights - some of which are dimming - that are trapped under the dull presence of duracrete and steel, and when she opens her eyes, she takes out the datapad to mark the places where she sensed the survivors. 

Just as she finishes marking up the files on her datapad, Vos opens his eyes, his brows furrowed. “What did you see?” she asks. 

“A lead,” he tells her, and her gaze sharpens. 

This will be interesting. 

\--

The lower levels of Coruscant are not the most welcoming of places. Non-locals often find themselves lost, unable to navigate the maze of alleys and half-broken paths that twist and turn throughout the planet. Even Jedi are easily lost, though they are able to find their way around a little more easily - unstable pathways are no challenge to beings that can jump over fifty feet. 

In the lower levels, it is not unusual to be watched. Every local keeps a watchful eye on their surroundings. It’s nothing personal - it’s simply business. Pickpockets and scammers are easily found. As such, it is not unusual to have the feeling of being watched when one wanders down there. 

“This place gives me the creeps,” Quinlan mutters to himself as he weaves his way through the crowd. Both he and Master Allie are in their cloaks - in a place such as this, it is not unusual for hooded individuals to be moving quickly along the alleyways. 

“I was under the impression that you had worked here before,” Master Allie says. 

“I’ve worked in the underbelly of Coruscant for a share of times,” he concedes. “But can you sense it? It’s different here.” 

Allie hums. “Yes. It is… colder, here. As if someone strong in the Force had spent much of their time ruminating on their fear.” 

Though his head doesn’t whip from side to side, Quinlan is tracking every suspicious movement with a sharp gaze, his senses on high alert. So far, he’d gently repelled four pickpockets, nudging them with the Force to make them stumble and lose interest. He also suspects that he and Master Allie are being followed - there’s some movement in the shadows, indiscernible and invisible, as if there’s something moving through them.

“We may have a follower,” he murmurs to her. 

“Oh?” In the Force, a quiet curiosity pulses from her. “I do wonder why they are so interested.”

On an unspoken word, the two of them double down on their shields in a technique used in only the most dangerous of stealth missions. _I am the passing wind,_ they say into the Force, and the eyes of the people near them glaze slightly as they move unconsciously around the two Jedi. _I am nothing. I am the light of the lamps and the shadow cast by the overhead signs. I am nothing._

After another thirteen minutes, Quinlan allows his breath to escape in a quiet sigh. “I think we lost our friend,” he quips. 

Allie chuckles. “I believe we have.”

\--

(They didn’t. 

Quinlan knows to check every shadow, from the ones cast by the smallest crate to the largest sign. His senses are finely attuned, able to catch any living creature that may be using the darkness of the shadows to hide themselves. 

But when their follower is someone who is _inside_ the shadow… it is a different story altogether.) 

\--

They find the abandoned explosives warehouse not long after. The other investigators are quickly called to the scene, quickly documenting the crates upon crates of nanodroids that match the nanodroids used at the previous bombings. Fingerprint investigations reveal no leads other than a few handprints which are later matched to Letta Turmond. When Quinlan casts out his senses, his visions given to him through psychometry give him a hint - a slight figure, female, young, and humanoid. “The suspect is someone with no head-tails,” he details in his report, and the information quickly makes its way through the chain to Ms. Zakarma, who begins her work to quickly free her client, much to the dismay of Captain Tarkin. 

Hours later, Obi-Wan Kenobi is recalled from the investigation of the explosion at the Chancellor’s office, and the case is put underneath the supervision of Master Allie and Knight Vos. The SBI cites the presence of the nanodroids at the Chancellor’s office as the reason to loop the explosion investigations into one case, along with their belief that the same culprit is involved in both.

“I was able to discern a name,” Obi-Wan tells the Council chambers quietly, later that night. The Jedi Masters lean forward in a wary anticipation. “It came to me in a vision - I haven’t written anything down.”

“Off the record, this must be,” Yoda says firmly. “No information, for the Sith to search through, we must give.”

Obi-Wan dips his head in acknowledgement, and he pronounces the name. “Vitiate,” he says, and the Force in the Council chambers trembles.

\--

**Now.**

As far as Wilhuff Tarkin is aware, the Jedi should be able to survive this if they truly deserved their reputation. 

The rumors say that the Jedi possess supernatural speed and strength, that they can control anything with their mind and that they have an unnatural gift of precognition. If they truly are so powerful, they should have been able to foresee the betrayal of Chancellor Palpatine. If they truly are so powerful, they should be able to prevent the loss of life. 

No matter. No great loss if the Jedi fall. The war has proven that they have no strength, no power, only a meek philosophy that does little to serve the Republic. If they are overwhelmed, they deserve to die. In fact, Tarkin finds in himself a modicum of respect for Palpatine which the Jedi do not deserve. The Chancellor certainly is clever, incredibly cunning, and powerful - such ambition is something that Tarkin can greatly respect. Unfortunately, he had been ousted on live television, and such a slip proves that even in the end, Chancellor Palpatine is not clever enough. 

Tarkin shakes his head. Is he surrounded by fools? Only the strong survive. It truly is bothersome when no-one around him is competent. Well - nearly no-one. Only a few, such as Garrick Versio and Orson Krennic, have proven competent, and even then, Tarkin has been keeping an eye on them, watching for any mistakes. 

The broadcast of Palpatine’s betrayal had been cut off shortly as the clone troopers of the Coruscant Guard began shooting at the Jedi, at any senators, and at any transports in the air. Tarkin had scoffed. He’d known from the start that the clones were inhuman. Of course they were - genetically engineered, unnatural, functionally the same as droids. He’d seen the need for medical stations, of course - it was cheaper to heal them than to buy new clones. Regardless, it may be prudent to begin switching to a more… human workforce following today’s events. 

Few Jedi had ever earned Tarkin’s respect. General Piell had earned it following the incident at the Citadel - to be resilient against torture for such a long period of time is no small matter. General Skywalker, too, had earned some of Tarkin’s respect, given his efficiency in battle and his prowess as a warrior. General Krell, too, was worthy of respect, in Tarkin’s opinion - his methods had been straightforward and had had results. Some of Tarkin’s colleagues had raised an eyebrow over General Krell’s high casualty numbers, but Tarkin had understood what his colleagues had not - that his is war, and that the casualties were necessary. Besides, the casualties were just clones. Easily regrown in a laboratory. It really was a shame that General Krell had perished on Umbara. 

Tarkin peers outside his office window, observing the flashes of light as transports are shot down. What chaos. The military buildings had been untouched - rightfully so, of course. As a Captain, he is safe from the orders Chancellor Palpatine had given out. 

He observes carefully, assessing the damage with a critical eye, then shakes his head - the clones are being sloppy. But what should he expect? They’re creatures grown in a laboratory. Of course they are sloppy. 

\--

If Tarkin had known that those would have been his last thoughts, he possibly would have thought of something else. Unfortunately, like the spiteful, arrogant man he was, Tarkin’s thoughts were always focused on the weakness of those around him and on his own assurance of his strength. 

Sloppy, he called the clones. How unfortunate, then, that a stray blaster bolt that was targeting one of the transports in the air had missed. How unfortunate it was that the blaster bolt went straight through the window of Tarkin’s office and into his chest. How unfortunate it was that he died sprawled over his office floor, face twisted in anger at the sloppiness of creatures bred in a laboratory. 

What a pitiful ending. 

\--

**Then.**

She can’t take Knight Skywalker in a fair fight.

She knows this.

Every time she considers the possibility - after all, since she had begun allowing herself to delve into the forbidden side of the Force, she had grown stronger - she remembers her dreams, and the burn of a lightsaber blade pulsing between her ribs. 

No. No. She’ll stop it. She’ll stop-

Fear claws at her stomach, making her breath come in short bursts. She tries to release it into the Force, but there’s too much, paralyzing her. _Force._ She can’t do this. She-

_It was for a good cause._

She holds onto that belief like someone clinging desperately to the edge of a cliff by her fingertips, inches away from oblivion. The Jedi _needed_ a wake-up call - they needed to feel the pain they inflicted on so many other cities. As a healer, she had seen so many civilians suffering the aftermath of aerial bombings, all of them collateral damage in a senseless war. So many of them had turned their backs on her, refusing help even though she _knew_ she could heal them. 

_Jedi,_ they had snarled, seeing the lightsaber at her belt. _Why should we trust you when you bombed our homes?_

Her tongue had felt like lead when she tried to reason with them, but one of them had gone so far as to pulling out their IV. _I’d rather die than have a Jedi touch me with their sorcery!_ A local had snarled at her, and she had been pulled out of the room, shell-shocked. 

She’d been caught in a bombing once, too. She’d woken up with part of her leg on fire, crushed underneath a burning beam. It had taken her three months to recover. 

Her master was too busy fighting another campaign during that time, and hadn’t visited her at all. 

Before the bombing, those experiences had come back to her every night. With each time she slept, she relived the pain of the bombing and the shock of the pain she had inflicted on civilians as a Jedi. She’d thought that the dreams would have stopped once she did something about it.

A sob chokes her throat, making her take one shuddering breath after another. She pushes up her shields. No matter how much she tries to release her emotions into the Force, she _can’t_. She can’t. It hurts too much. 

Over time, she’d come to understand that the Jedi were on the wrong side. They were such hypocrites - they preached compassion while bombing cities, they preached kindness while abandoning their padawans as they recovered from injuries they obtained from being bombed by their own side. 

The Jedi needed to see it. They needed to feel the consequences of their own actions, the consequences of their own violence. They deserved far worse - what she had done was only a fraction of what they had inflicted on other worlds. 

The bombing of the Temple was necessary. It was necessary.

It was necessary.

She pushes away any doubts she has on the victims. Anybody working with the Jedi is complicit. She was once part of the Jedi, but she’s doing her part. She’s doing the right thing, she’s sure of it. She’s sure of it. 

A part of her feels guilty for framing Ahsoka. The Togruta had been her friend, after all. But when she had meditated, the Force had told her that Ahsoka would have been the best option to choose out of all the others. After all, she knows the Togruta the best. It’s easier to frame someone you know. 

Her mind turns back to the case of Knight Skywalker. There’s no way he isn’t investigating the bombings on his own time. Perhaps, if she could find a way to lure him to the warehouse, and to set off the nanodroids while he is inside-

Yes. Yes, that should work. 

Hours later, she watches as Master Allie, Knight Vos, and the SBI agents leave the warehouse, leaving it cordoned off. She’s well hidden in the Force - even Knight Vos doesn’t glance her way. From her hiding place, she can see inside the warehouse, but she’s far enough to be safe from the eventual explosion. 

And she waits. 

\--

Thirty minutes after the last SBI agent has left, Anakin steps into the warehouse from the shadows. 

He’s not sure what he’s looking for. While he’s pretty sure that he’s competent with investigations, he’s aware that Quinlan Vos likely has a leg up with his talent in psychometry. 

But he needs to be here. He knows this. 

He moves through the warehouse, taking care to stay within the shadows in case he needs to leave at a moment’s notice. Even so, he keeps the hood of his cloak over his head, providing another protection should there be cameras or somebody peering inside one of the windows. As of now, though, he doesn’t sense anyone nearby. He’ll be able to catch anyone that approaches. He knows he can - even before Mortis, he’d been stronger in the Force than most. 

(He catches a glimpse of himself in the reflection of one of the windows and looks away. 

He’d never really seen himself that way, but there’s something very unnerving looking into his own reflection and seeing a hint of a mouth that slashes open his face from ear to ear.)

He doesn’t make it to the crates before they go off. 

\--

In the same moment, Obi-Wan is walking through the halls of the Temple, deep in conversation with Masters Rancisis and Unduli. “You know,” he is saying, “The poet-”

Then he cuts off, staggering on his feet, as danger slams through his bond with Anakin.

\--

When she casts out her senses, she brushes against the presence that she’s sure is Knight Skywalker. 

He senses her, but she knows it’s too late. She presses the detonator and the nanodroids go off, lighting up her view in a rainbow of flames. 

After all, even for a Jedi - even for the Chosen One - it is impossible to hold back or to escape an explosion of that magnitude. 

\--

But he’s not just a Jedi anymore, is he? 

When he’s in the shadows, his vision is no longer hindered by eyesight.

When he’s in the shadows, he’s One with the Force, a part of the alleyways and nooks and crannies in which all shadows are on the planet. When he’s in the shadows, he’s no longer hindered by a mind that can only process so much. 

And in the shadows, he senses another presence, crouched in the shadow of an alleyway, watching the explosion of the warehouse with relief coming in waves from her Force-presence. 

\--

She’d done it. 

She’d really done it. The moment she had pressed the detonator, Knight Skywalker’s presence had vanished, becoming one with the Force. The consequences of his disappearance would be felt, but perhaps-

“You seem very relieved for someone who’s just witnessed an explosion.”

Her blood runs cold and she whips around, terror plain on her face, and she meets the icy blue gaze of Anakin Skywalker.

“Barriss Offee,” he says in surprise, only his voice is edged with steel. Her memory of her nightmares return to her, full force, and she stumbles backwards. “What business do you have in the lower levels of Coruscant?”

\--

At the Temple, Obi-Wan’s comm chimes, and he slams his hand onto the damned thing, too relieved to see Anakin’s comm number to think of anything but replying. Then Anakin’s voice comes through, saying something incomprehensible. “You seem very relieved for someone who’s just witnessed an explosion.”

Wordless, Obi-Wan meets the eyes of Luminara and Oppo in confusion. What explosion? He opens his mouth, but before he can reply, Anakin speaks again, his voice sounding faraway, as if he’s some distance away from his comm. “Barriss Offee. What business do you have in the lower levels of Coruscant?”

It is then that Obi-Wan understands that Anakin is comming him to show proof that he’s just caught the culprit of the Temple bombing. 

Beside him, Luminara’s face turns pale, and the Force around her bursts into sorrow. 

\--

“Why are _you_ here?” she snaps back at Skywalker, only her mind is whirling, terror making her voice shaky. 

“When my padawan is framed for a crime she didn’t commit, I think I have reason enough to want to prove her innocence.” With each step he takes, she takes another step back, trying to move away from him. He looks human, but there’s something about the way that he’s moving that’s _wrong._

Oh, Force. She’s going to die. She’s going to die. Her chest tightens in fear as she senses the carefully hidden anger emanating from him, cold and horrifying and _dangerous._ She doesn’t stand a chance if he draws first, and she can’t run. There’s nowhere to go. She must- she must-

She draws her saber and lunges for his heart.

He blocks it, his lightsaber already ignited and slashing back at her side. Her parry comes just in time, yet even then, the strength of his blow sends tremors down her arms. “Funny,” he growls at her over the clash of their blades. “Is that a detonator on your belt?”

“You should have died!” she shouts back at him. Despair claws at her and she draws on it, allowing the coldness of the Force to strengthen her. She needs everything she has to survive this. Her lightsaber swipes at his feet and he leaps, his lightsaber slashing down to clip at her shoulder, and she twists, narrowly avoiding his blade. 

(His leap was too graceful. He was in the air for just a fraction of a second too long, as if he was being held up by wings of shadow.)

Force. Force. Gods of Mirial, she’s kriffing terrified. 

“Dozens of others did,” he snarls. “In the Temple. In the Detention Center. You nearly killed Ahsoka!”

“They deserved it!” Her voice shakes and she _hates_ it, hates how she’s kriffing terrified and how she keeps feeling the phantom pain of a blade pulsing between her ribs. “They were criminals, all of them! The Jedi have long become the villains in this conflict. They _needed_ to understand the consequences of the pain they inflicted on others!”

“So you answered violence with violence?” His blade is relentless, constantly driving her backwards, and she swears that his blade isn’t always the clear blue of the Jedi, but the burning crimson of the Sith. “There were innocents you killed in your attacks!”

“No one who works with the Jedi is innocent,” she hisses. “Each of them contributed towards the pain that _we_ as an Order inflicted on civilians! On true innocents! This Republic is held on foundations of hypocrisy, and it is failing. It’s only a matter of time!”

Skywalker laughs, the sound dark and absolutely terrifying, and she swears that his mouth is opening far too wide for him to be human. “And you think _betrayal_ is the answer? Ahsoka was your friend. She trusted you!”

“I’ve learned that trust is overrated.” Her blade is twisting without stopping, trying to stop a fatal blow, but she’s tiring. She can feel it with each blow - she can’t go on the offensive anymore. Force. She’s going to die here, in the alleyways of the underbelly of Coruscant, fighting a man that’s part-human and part something _else._ Some ways away, she can sense the approaching presences of other Jedi - Master Allie and Knight Vos - as they race towards her location. 

Skywalker’s blows are unceasing, Barriss’ arms having barely recovered from blocking one strike before he follows up with another. She needs to seize the next opening or she’ll never make it. She waits impatiently, her despair clawing at her throat, making her stomach churn with terror, and then she sees it, and she leaps to take the chance. 

The Force swirls around her, lashing outwards, and Skywalker staggers back as she lunges forward, her blade aimed to pierce his heart. 

She’s seen this moment before. 

Oh, Force. She saw this moment in her dreams. 

When his blade comes up and drives into her chest, she’s not surprised anymore.

Just numb. 

(She meets Skywalker’s eyes before all goes dark, and she sees that they are the colour of gold.)

\--

Many klicks away, Ahsoka Tano meditates in her cell, the Force around her calm and relaxed following the meeting with Ms. Zakarma. The zabrak woman had been _amazing,_ going out of her way to make sure Ahsoka knew all she could use in her legal arsenal to be freed. Even after Ms. Zakarma had left, Ahsoka had felt content, certain that she would be freed soon. 

She falls into the Force, careful not to delve too deeply. She thinks of the vision she had seen last time - the desiccating corpse of her non-future - and she asks the Force for guidance. 

There’s nothing, but that’s alright. She waits. 

Some time later, she emerges from her meditation with a strange feeling, as if she’s surfacing from underwater after a very long swim. She opens her eyes, certain that hours have passed, and she’s faced with the incredible sight of her own body, sitting cross-legged on the floor. 

Okay. An out-of-body experience. It’s not unusual, even for non-Force Sensitives, and she briefly wonders if it’s because she hasn’t had enough sleep. She tries to take a step towards herself, only something flutters at the edge of her vision, and she looks downwards to see that she’s in the body of a convor. 

_Oh._

She’s in Morai’s body. 

Gods of Shili, the Force is beautiful through the convor's eyes. What was previously a rainbow of colours that Ahsoka had seen with her own eyes now seems grey and dull in comparison to what she can see now. The kaleidoscope she sees now is nearly incomprehensible to her mind, a part of her wanting to be frozen forever in awe. 

But for the most part, she simply accepts it. As Morai, she can feel a great calm in every fiber of her being. True serenity is no longer a dream but her reality. When she's in this form, she knows that nothing can shock her. 

When she’s in this form, walls and locks are nothing but something easily flown through. 

The Force beckons to her. She spreads her wings, the feeling not so alien to her now that she’s in the body of a convor, and she flies to where the Force pulses. When she’s like this, distance is no great hurdle. The Force is everywhere, and she can appear wherever she wants in the time that she wants. 

She arrives in time to see her master drive his blade through Barriss Offee. 

In the back of her mind, she feels a great sorrow to learn of this betrayal. Barriss, the Temple bomber? But it is with the Force. She cannot change Barriss’ actions anymore than she can save those that died in the Temple bombing. 

She watches as Anakin withdraws his blade and catches Barriss as she falls. Behind him, Master Allie and Knight Vos arrive. "We heard everything you sent through the comm," Master Allie says, her gaze watching Barriss with a deep sadness. "Are you alright, Knight Skywalker?" 

Ahsoka sends a little pulse of Light through her bond with Anakin, and when he turns to face Master Allie, his eyes are blue. "I am," he says, voice grave. "I- I had no choice."

Knight Vos, too, is somber, his expression serious. "We understand. Is there a chance of saving her?" 

Barriss is fading quickly. Within the next few seconds, she will likely die, her presence gone forever. But Ahsoka can sense in the mirialan padawan a seed of Darkness, entrenched deeply, and not entirely of her own making. 

She doesn't deserve this. Her actions were wrong, no doubt, but she had been manipulated. 

Ahsoka reaches out, landing on Barriss' wound, and she draws on the Light. The Force swirls around her, a beautiful kaleidoscope of colours, and something shifts. 

_Life_ , she breathes. _Give her life. Give her Light._

The Force swells, a burst of strength going from Ahsoka and into Barriss, and the mirialan padawan sighs as her vital signs stabilize for the time being. 

(Dimly, Ahsoka is aware that she should be hysterical, both at Barriss’ betrayal and at her sudden ability to become one with Morai. But she isn’t. She’s serene, calm, and one with the Light. When she is Morai, nothing can shock her.)

Anakin’s brows furrow as he scans Barriss’ Force-presence, but he jerks his head once. “Yes. She needs medical attention immediately.” 

“Allow me,” Master Allie says, and Anakin moves aside as Master Allie goes to keep Barriss stable, the Force swirling around her in a beautiful dance of Light. 

But there’s more to do. Ahsoka sinks deeply into the Force, probing the roots of corruption that had taken hold in Barriss’ mind, and she reaches out a clawed foot. 

Then she _pulls._

Barriss screams, a howl of agony so unearthly and pain-filled that even Master Allie’s emotions leap in fear, and she jerks as Ahsoka rips away at the Darkness that had been nurtured by an outside Force. She pulls, and she pulls, and she pulls-

Then Barriss lies still, her mind damaged, but free of corruption. 

“We need a medic now!” Knight Vos is snarling into his comm. “We have one person in critical-”

“Stay with me, Padawan,” Master Allie murmurs, though her brows are scrunched together in confusion. Ahsoka knows that Master Allie had just sensed the changes in Barriss. just as surely as she knows that both Knight Vos and Master Allie can’t see her in Morai’s form. “Stay with me.”

The moment before Ahsoka flies away, Anakin meets her eyes, and she pokes at their bond. 

_This was as the Force willed it, Master._

Then the world turns on its axis, swirling into darkness, and she blinks. When she opens her eyes again, she’s back in her own body, and the emotional weight of everything she had just witnessed crashes into her.

And she cries. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for bearing with me. It's been a long month and it's not over yet - I have an exam in a few days along with several job applications due at the end of the month. I can't give any promises for the next update, but I'm going to try to get it done by the 31st. Again, no promises. I'm quite burnt out from school, not to mention worried about the upcoming year. Who on earth decided that having in-person classes in massive university that's in the city is a good idea? What's more, the bars are open, and our city had a scare where 550 people were maybe infected because they went to the same strip club where an employee tested positive. It's just not a fun time. Thankfully, I've been cooped up at home. 
> 
> Back to the story:
> 
> I know there's many loose ends!! I will tie them up soon I promise. 
> 
> But, up next: Now that this arc is over, we're getting into the FREAKY stuff soon. I'm talking eldritch, scary, GOOD stuff. I'm excited. 
> 
> EDIT DECEMBER 2020:  
> Hey all. It took me way too long to realize this. But I've come to realize how the SW canon's portrayal of Barriss is, in fact, lowkey Islamophobic, and all I can say is that at the time I wrote this into this story, I had no idea about the implications of this. It's not an excuse. I'm sorry. I won't do this again for future fics - I'll be more aware of the subtle issues that are woven into SW canon. 
> 
> For those of you that didn't notice anything, well, neither did I. And now you now. To have Barriss - one of the only muslim-coded characters in TCW - to be THE Temple Bomber just doesn't sit right. So for writers, be aware of this. For readers - also be aware of this.


	15. Interlude: Magicks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gods of Mortis are not the only ones that Force-Sensitives consider to be unnatural. Far, far away, on the red-black grounds of Dathomir, its inhabitants discuss the shifts in the Force.
> 
> A short interlude to set up the next arc.

**Then.**

Dathomir has not changed since the last time he was here.

It shouldn’t be surprising, really. Dathomir had rarely changed throughout history. What is more, this place is home to at least one ally that could possibly help Maul recover his missing memories. There’s a large blank spot in his mind, gaping and numb, that leaves him aware that something had been taken from him. Last he remembers, he had been locked in contact with the Jedi. With Obi-Wan Kenobi. 

He sets the ship down with caution. He’d only been to this side of the planet once - as a male, he’d lived on the opposite side - but he’s certain that he will be welcome. He has an ally.

No, _ally_ is the wrong word. An old emotion, long-forgotten, stirs at the bottom of his stomach as he remembers who he is here to see. 

_Mother._

He steps off the ship, and a strange emotion rises up within him as he returns home after many, many years. 

The air around Dathomir tastes strange. Overhead, the trees loom ominously, their long branches stretching out jaggedly in all directions to eclipse any view of a horizon. As Maul makes his way towards the tall pillars that form the entrance to the coven, he passes by the large pods wrapped in silks, and suppresses a shiver. Though he is a Sith, some things are still too unnatural for his tastes, and the sheer number of burial pods that he sees around him unnerves him greatly. Even now, dozens or hundreds or even thousands of years after their deaths, the Force-presence of the dead sisters buried within these pods still lingers, curling around the planet with long, spidery fingers of coldness. 

The back of his neck prickles. A lesser man would have whipped around, certain that he was being watched, only to find nothing in sight. But Maul is a Sith, and he is from Dathomir. He _knows_ he’s being watched just as well as he knows that he will not see the ones watching him until they choose to reveal themselves. 

The walk to the entrance of the coven is uneventful, yet the air is charged with… apprehension. In the distance, he can hear the roar of the rancors as the sisters fight to tame them. The Force around this place is charged with unease, as if the sisters are anticipating something he cannot yet comprehend. 

In the corner of his eye, a movement in the branches above draws his attention, and he turns around to see three forms dropping from the branches to land at a distance behind him. They stand, their movements too graceful and smooth to be natural, and it is this way that he recognizes them.

“Sisters,” he greets. 

Two of the Nightsisters are dressed in their traditional red garb, their hands holding the traditional energy bows. The third sister stands between the other two, no weapons in hand, and garbed in black. 

There’s something strange about her. Her presence is carefully hidden, and there is something about her that sings to him. 

“You’re not like the others,” she says by way of greeting, her eyes meeting his. They’re a pale, frosty blue, as cold and uninviting as the Force around her.

An unexpected greeting, but a welcome one. “No, I am not,” he agrees. “I would like to speak to my mother. Talzin.”

The sisters’ eyes widen by a fraction, their surprise colouring the Force around them. The sister in black nods, and gestures. “Come with us.” 

It chafes. To be compliant to the orders of the Nightsisters is custom on this planet, but even so, he is a Lord of the Sith, and he is certain that he is more powerful than most of the sisters. To be ordered around is not something he is _pleased_ about. Nonetheless, he acquiesces. There is no use in making an enemy of his own people. 

“This is Karis and Naa’leth,” the sister in black says, gesturing to her other sisters in turn. Both of them give him no acknowledgement other than a subtle dip of their heads. “My name is Ventress.”

As he falls into step behind them, he gives his own name as courtesy. “I was given the name Maul by my master,” he says, and a part of him boils in resentment towards Sidious. “But my true name is something that I have long forgotten.” 

Ventress glances back at him, an unreadable expression in her eyes, before turning back to face the direction in which they’re heading. “Karis, Naa’leth, find Mother and tell her of her visitor.” She tilts her head. “I would like to speak to him alone.”

The other two Nightsisters move ahead without another word as Ventress stops and turns to face him. His curiosity peaked, Maul watches Ventress carefully, only to find his eyes drawn to something at her waist. 

He understands, now, why something about her presence had been singing to him. The lightsabers at her hip that had been hidden by Karis and Naa’leth’s bodies are visible now, the kyber calling to him in the Force. “You were an apprentice,” he deduces. Briefly, he wonders if she could be a potential apprentice of his, and another stirring of resentment rises within him as he remembers that Savage has vanished, both in person and in the Force, following his latest confrontation with Kenobi. 

“I _was_.” The emphasis on the word puts a stop to his musings, a brief flash of irritation igniting in his chest before he dismisses it as useless. “My master abandoned me - just as yours did.” 

He bares his teeth, musing the consequences of attacking her for her insolence, before grudgingly dismissing it. She is powerful in the Force, and he is without a weapon. What is more, he has no desire to alienate his mother. 

“Why return here?” he asks instead. “You are strong in the Dark Side. I can sense it.”

“The Sith brought me nothing but pain,” she scoffs. “There is no war on Dathomir, no master to abandon you. Are you here to stay, brother?”

Her words strike him at the core. The Sith have indeed brought him nothing but pain, his master abandoning him after years and years of dedication and restless training. But there is another goal he wishes to enact. “I may,” he allows. “But only after I have had my revenge.”

“On a Jedi?” Ventress asks, bemused. 

“On Obi-Wan Kenobi,” he growls. 

Her reaction startles him with its unexpectedness. Ventress throws her head back and laughs, a high and humorless cackle that rings throughout the forest. “ _Kenobi?_ ” she sneers, spitting the name as if it is vile. He truly does reconsider attacking her then, anger boiling in his chest, before she speaks again. “A Jedi with a pretty face and pretty words with an unreasonable amount of luck. I will not leave the coven again, but if you are successful, I shall _very_ much like to hear about it.” 

Interesting. "So he has defeated you before," Maul concludes, needling her. 

She bristles, but her face does not twist in anger. "He has. He was always with his precious companion, Skywalker," she drawls. "But that is behind me now. My loyalty is to the coven."

Curiously, he prods at her presence, and finds something which, despite himself, he finds astonishing. Though she is still with turmoil, years of rage and resentment and fear still deep-seated within her, she is not ruled by them, her presence a certain _grey_ mixed with the bright green of the Nightsisters rather than the roiling Dark that he knows is within himself. “I see,” he murmurs. “Yet even as a sister, you are not a wielder of magick, are you not?”

“No, I’m not. Like you, I was stolen from my home as a child.” Ventress stops at the entrance to the coven, turning to face him, her face softening by the slightest fraction. “And like you, I came home.” 

Before he can reply to her, Ventress runs back to the cover of the trees, her movements as light and graceful as the cat-like apex predators which populate the northern side of Dathomir. _Curious_ , he muses.

Then he’s suddenly aware of a new presence, bright, powerful, and a pulsing green, familiar and also long-forgotten. He turns, a strange emotion bubbling in his throat, and it takes him a long time to recognize the emotion as _longing._

Oh. 

_Oh._

It’s been so long. 

“My _son,_ ” Mother Talzin gasps, her normally serene face now a picture of joy. “My son.” 

“Mother,” he manages, and when she reaches to caress his face, he lets her. 

\--

Days pass on Dathomir. Maul spends his time alone or with his mother, learning to further hone his skills. He never learns to wield the magicks - he cannot, for he is not a sister - but he spends his time further strengthening his connection to the Force on Dathomir.

It is different here. On most other planets, the Force is a beautiful twisting whirlpool of colours, flickering with the lights of the billions of inhabitants which populate the planet. But on Dathomir, the Force is sharp and cold, a carefully refined green that pierces at his mind if he is not careful. This is the home of the Nightsisters - they have molded the Force here, changed and bended it so that they may wield their magicks. 

Talzin provides him with a blade-staff in which she had personally imbued the most potent of her magicks, making it powerful enough to resist the heat of a lightsaber. He spends some of his time sparring with Ventress, their duels fierce, and in the aftermath of their fights, the Force around them always boils with Darkness. 

They do not always leave the duels unscathed. Following a particularly brutal one in which Ventress cracked three of his ribs and he sliced open her stomach, they were both subject to a stern lecture from Mother Talzin which stung more than their wounds. She had healed them, of course - but they had learned that the other was under Talzin’s protection. 

Still, his dislike for Ventress doesn’t lessen. She is insolent, arrogant, disrespectful, and he is certain that she thinks the same of him. 

(Yet, as he leaves each duel with exhilaration running through his blood, he privately admits to himself that he does feel a modicum of kinship with her. _Sister,_ indeed.)

\--

On the other side of the planet, the Nightbrothers follow their daily routine. Since their brother Savage had returned, tired and terrified and reporting of the return of the Fanged God and the Parent, they had continued their training with a renewed vigor, praying more often to the god and the Winged Goddess. 

With each passing day, they had noticed an increase in their strength and a singing in their blood, and they knew the reports of the return of their gods had been true. 

But on this day which seems like any other, something has changed. The air is charged with something _different_ , making the clan anxious. The red fog seems heavier than usual, and the roar of rancors sounds too close. The back of Savage’s neck prickles often, as if he is being watched, and a strange feeling passes over him several times. 

There’s a part of him that still feels empty. He misses Feral, misses the kindness of his brother that he had been mind-tricked into killing, and he hates the Nightsisters for it. But he is powerless now, and there is nothing he can do to undo the punishment of a god. 

He shivers again. The wrath of the Fanged God had been terrifying to behold. He remembers, too, feeling his life hanging over the precipice, held entirely in the Parent’s hands. 

He had never felt more vulnerable than in that moment. 

At the moment, he is alone in his room, meditating to calm his nerves. It is a technique that he was never particularly good at as a Sith - yet, as a Nightbrother, it is something that they all must know to calm their nerves before the hunt. 

Suddenly, what feels like ice water runs down his back, and his eyes snap open, his head whipping up to assess the threat. 

Then he sees who it is, and he quickly sinks into a bow. 

“Mother Talzin.”

Her form is like water, the edges of her clothing and body in constant motion. “Savage,” she says, her deep voice echoing from all corners of his room, and he thinks bitterly of how she probably only seeks him out now because she has some use for him. “You were stripped of the power we had given you?”

"I was, Mother." He looks up at her, carefully hiding the resentment in his eyes. "It was the Parent. He stripped me of the magicks and he took the memories of my brother."

Her head is murky and transparent, made unclear as she is not here in person but rather through a projection made from magick, and even so, he can see the spark of fear in her eyes. "The Parent?" she demands, an edge of wonder in her voice. 

"Yes, Mother.” He watches her carefully. “He and the Fanged God took my brother after they stripped me of my power.”

Talzin’s mouth falls open by a fraction. On the face of any other person, such a reaction is insignificant, but on Talzin, it is the equivalent of a shout of horror. "I see," she says, her voice carefully controlled. 

Then she disappears without another word. 

Privately, he scoffs. Clearly, she had only come to him since she needed to confirm the emergence of the Parent. Still, it rankles, to be at the beck and call of the Nightsisters with nothing in return. 

At least he will never have to fight another one of their battles. The will of the gods demands it. 

\--

Three days later, the Jedi Council is in the midst of their session when they receive a call from a signal not used in over a thousand years. They answer to see the figure of Mother Talzin, her face calm, but her posture tense. 

“Long, it has been, since contact the Council, the Nightsisters have,” says Master Yoda, his ears pointed curiously. “Need, what do you?”

“Masters Jedi,” Mother Talzin says, inclining her head in a show of respect. “I have had a vision. Count Dooku believes that we are a threat to him and his army. They plan on leading an army to eliminate us - it is our humble request that you send us aid.”

The Council exchanges weighted glances. While the magicks wielded by the Nightsisters are not necessarily something _approved_ of by the Jedi, the coven has rarely been an issue, mostly keeping to themselves and never interfering with anything unless it had threatened them directly. “Will he be interfering directly?” asks Mace. 

“No. But I sense that the one he will be sending is of importance, especially to the Jedi Order.” Talzin’s eyes search the Council. “I have foreseen the arrival of a cyborg who wields Jedi weapons.”

“Grievous,” the Council murmurs. Though they are not close allies - or even allies at all, normally - with the Nightsisters, they do not doubt her ability in divination. The Clan Mother is usually the most powerful of witches, as powerful as the strongest of Jedi. 

“Do you know when exactly he will arrive on Dathomir?” Asks Shaak Ti. 

“Within a fortnight. You have my word as the Clan Mother that should you arrive to assist us, we will protect you as one of our own.”

Left unsaid are the words, _we will protect you only as long as you protect us._

The Council ponders. The Force around them murmurs in deliberation as quiet, unsaid conversations are held in the minds of the twelve of them.

After careful consideration, Obi-Wan Kenobi speaks. “But there is more to this, isn’t there.” He phrases it as a statement and not a question. “What else do you want out of this?”

Talzin turns to him, her eyes locking with his, and for the briefest moment, he senses her fear. 

Not fear for her coven, or fear of the impending invasion, but fear of _him._

He remembers suddenly the reaction of Savage Opress back when he had confronted the zabrak last, and he realizes that if Opress could recognize the gifts of the Father within him, surely, Mother Talzin can too. 

The fraction of the millisecond passes with the rest of the Council none the wiser. Talzin’s posture slumps ever so slightly, and Obi-Wan is aware that she is relenting and being freer with her answers because she fears him. “Immunity for my children,” she concedes. “I humbly ask for them to be free from the hunters of the Jedi Order.”

Some of the Council members tilt their heads in confusion, a question on their lips, but Obi-Wan answers the question before they even ask it. “You seek immunity for Asajj Ventress,” he says, and his stomach tightens. “For Darth Maul.”

The Force in the Council Chambers drops a few degrees, a low rumble making its way throughout the room. Had this been the Senate Chambers, the room would have descended into immediate chaos - as it is, some of the masters lean forwards in their seats, a severe expression on their faces, and some of them suck in a sharp breath, a firm denial on their lips. For Obi-Wan, he carefully releases his emotions into the Force, yet even so, he is aware that his expression has changed, hardening into steel. 

Talzin sees this. The corners of her eyes tighten, but she does not relent. As much as he dislikes her request, he can respect that - how the love of a mother can eclipse even the fear of a god. 

(In the reflection of the windows, he catches his own gaze, and hurriedly dispels his emotions into the Force. 

It wouldn’t do for anyone in the Council to start questioning why his eyes are _glowing_ blue-green.)

Before he can decide on what to say, Yoda speaks for the Council. “Accept this, we cannot. Too much harm to the Republic, and to our Order, they have done,” he says firmly. He holds out a hand, stalling any protest. “But for your help, in defeating General Grievous, search for your children, we will not, on Dathomir, provided that attack us, they do not, should we send assistance.”

The Force flares with a silent protest from several members which believe that this is too lenient. Releasing his anger into the Force, Obi-Wan forces himself to look at the situation with an objective eye. This compromise is likely the best option - by aiding the Nightsisters, the Order could potentially capture Grievous, and begin the ending of the war. 

Still. He doesn’t like it. 

Talzin inclines her head in acceptance. “We request that you only send Jedi to aid us,” she says. “A large army may eliminate our element of surprise. Dooku and his minions do not know that we have predicted this.”

“We understand. May we give you an answer within the next day?” Mace asks.

“That is acceptable. I thank you, Master Jedi.” Talzin waves her hand, cutting the connection, and the Council chambers immediately explodes into discussion. 

\--

The debate rages long into the hours of the night. Different issues are brought up; a newfound distrust of the Chancellor wars with the worries of being charged with treason. 

“I do not think it is wise to allow this knowledge to leave the Council Chambers,” Mace says. “There are moles in the Senate; what’s more, we know the Chancellor has likely been influenced by the Sith.”

Memories of the holocron stir, making the Council shift uneasily in their seats.

“But to keep such vital information from the military borders on treason,” says Ki-Adi-Mundi, and the debate begins anew. 

At the end, the Council decides to hide the information from the Senate. In the report that eventually finds its way to the desk of Chancellor Palpatine, the Council only mentions that the deployment of a few of its members to Dathomir is on a mission to try to find Maul. Palpatine sees the report, a twinge of foreboding filling his mind, but he dismisses it. All the better for him - if the Jedi find Maul, one will eliminate the other, and either outcome is desirable. 

\--

Eventually, the Council agrees on sending Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker to Dathomir. No other team of Jedi is as well-forged as this one - for a mission as perilous as this, they are needed. 

“And what of Darth Maul?” Obi-Wan asks. “I am not sure that it will be a good idea for either of us to cross paths with him.” 

He gestures to himself, then at Anakin, who has a glint in his eye that’s a tad too murderous for a Jedi. 

“To the Force, listen,” Yoda says, prodding them both in the shins with his gimer stick. “Tell you, what does it?”

The Force isn’t _speaking_ to them, not really. Instead, they can feel it pulling at them, like a thousand tendrils pulling at their chest and directing them to where it wants them to go. Since Mortis, it had been crooning, a soft song in the back of their minds. 

It sings now to them. _Go,_ it hums with lilting tones. _Go to Dathomir._

They tell Yoda as much, and he tilts his head. “But more, there is, hmm? Three Jedi, you will be.”

“It’s too dangerous for her,” Anakin snaps immediately, and Obi-Wan makes to agree before Yoda stops them short.

“Say a name, I did not,” Yoda says, shaking his head. “Have a name in mind, I did not. The Force, name your companion, does it?”

Anakin slams his mouth shut, gritting his teeth, and Obi-Wan pulls back with a thoughtful gaze. 

\--

Two days later, the _Twilight_ departs for Dathomir.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” mutters Ahsoka as she stares out the cockpit, and Anakin laughs as Obi-Wan rolls his eyes. 

(The last time they’d been on this ship together with just the three of them, it had been on the mission to Mortis.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My god. If I include the still-not-yet-published excerpts, this fic has surpassed the 100,000 word/200 page mark. What a journey.
> 
> Next up: I promised the freaky eldritch stuff will come up soon. Now that the scene is set, it will come within the next two chapters. I'll definitely explore more into the aftermath of Barriss' betrayal as well as other things.


	16. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some edits and fanart! 
> 
> [Eldritch!Anakin by Mid-nighttiger on tumblr](https://mid-nighttiger.tumblr.com/post/625496871451934720/anakin-from-revenge-of-the-shits)
> 
> [Barriss vs. Anakin in "Chapter 12”](https://imgur.com/a/1ADvq5Q)
> 
> Special thanks to daisybaritone for beta-ing this chapter!
> 
> This chapter is almost entirely setup for the arc to come - it turned out longer than anticipated, but I think everything here is stuff I want to include regardless. 

**Then.**

The sun rises on an already busy planet, casting long lines of shades of gold across the surface of Coruscant. 

It’s only 0545 hours. At this time of day, most of the Coruscanti residents are either asleep or just getting out of bed, ready for another long day in a galaxy plunged into war. Many of those directly involved with the war effort are already up - sitting at her desk, Senator Chuchi is already pouring over legislation. At the  _ 500 Republica,  _ Senator Amidala is preparing for a long day, her handmaidens assisting her with her make-up, and at the veranda of another apartment, Senator Mothma is just stepping into her speeder, getting ready to depart to the Senate Dome. 

In one of the rooms of the Senate, Chancellor Palpatine stands, eyes closed, his body turned towards the window. Following the destruction of his office, he had been moved to a different room, far more bland and less inviting than his previous office. But no matter. The placement of one’s office is not something crucial in the long term. 

He carefully casts out his senses, ensuring that his presence is still carefully crafted, bland and unassuming so that any Jedi that senses him will immediately move on to another presence. In the Force, he reaches out, searching the tendrils of the future which spiderweb in an intricate pattern across his vision. 

One of the webs touches upon a document on his desk. He opens his eyes, peering at the unassuming flimsi, and he sees that it is a report sent from the Jedi Council of their search for Maul. He had dismissed it earlier, even reveling in the idea that the Jedi would search Dathomir and leave, realizing too late that they had missed General Grievous by a short moment in time, but he reconsiders. 

The names on the report were mostly unsurprising. Obi-Wan Kenobi. Anakin Skywalker. Ahsoka Tano. The heroes of the Republic, sent down to hunt down a renegade Sith. Sidious is not even particularly surprised that the Jedi had sent Padawan Tano to hunt down Maul - after all, he can sense her quick growth in power. He muses on her future, debating the benefits of possibly turning her to the Dark Side as well. She would certainly make a powerful ally, and her Fall could potentially push Anakin to Fall as well. It is… appealing. 

But then again, her death would certainly be of great impact as well. What to do, what to do…

An opportunity opens up to him, unfolding in his mind’s eye. A smile spreads across his face - not one carefully crafted with just the right amount of warmth, weariness, and empathy, but the true smile with a sadistic coldness which frequently sends shivers down the spines of whoever is unlucky enough to see it. 

It is early enough in the morning for him to be undisturbed. He had deliberately cleared out his schedule for the day, ensuring that he would be free to go about as he pleased. There are goals he needs to accomplish before Anakin returns. What is more, Master Yoda has left Coruscant for a meditative retreat. It has worked out perfectly - but Sidious must hurry.

Palpatine calls to Mas Amedda. “See to it that I am undisturbed,” he instructs. 

“Yes, Your Excellency,” says Amedda with a bow, and he sweeps out of the room without another word. 

Even in the safety of his own office, Darth Sidious does not take  _ chances.  _ Nothing is left to chance - all he does is deliberate and with careful consideration. Thus, he moves to a hidden closet, used only when he needs to make quick communications to his apprentice. The entrance slides open, only movable by the Dark Side of the Force, and he quietly moves inside, pulling on the cloak he often dons when around Count Dooku.

No use being careless, even on a secure communications channel such as this one that’s thrice-encrypted. 

The holo buzzes, flickering on to reveal the kneeling form of Count Dooku. “Master,” he says by way of greeting, and even through the hologram, Sidious can sense the waves of hatred and rage, carefully controlled, roiling in the Force. 

He allows himself a smile, and carefully begins to detail his plan.

\--

Dooku is not told everything, of course. He is not told that Sidious has foreseen the death of Grievous. He is not told that Sidious is planning the beginning of the end, that after careful consideration, he knows that now is the time for the war to begin winding down, and that the twilight of the Jedi will soon begin. He is not told that Sidious foresees that Anakin Skywalker is walking the precipice between Light and Dark, precariously balanced.

What he is told is that Obi-Wan Kenobi and Ahsoka Tano must die. And so, special commando droid units are commissioned, their body plates laced with cortosis to make lightsabers and blaster bolts ineffective against them, and two squads are deployed, one for each Jedi. Such droids have been tested in the field before - usually, two droids are enough for a singular Jedi, but both Tano and Kenobi are powerful, and so nothing is left to chance. The invasion of Dathomir is moved up by a week to catch the Jedi by surprise during their search for Maul. 

Dooku bows low, and takes the orders without question. The comm cuts, and Palpatine emerges from the closet and calls to Mas Amedda. “Prepare my ship,” he instructs, and Amedda makes haste to follow the orders.

\--

Parsecs and parsecs away, surrounded by the whirling blue lights of hyperspace, the  _ Twilight _ continues on its steady pace towards Dathomir. In the back of the ship, Ahsoka sits in a quiet meditation, reflecting on the events of the past week.

Just a week earlier, Ahsoka had been released from her cell in the light of Barriss’ admission of guilt. She had been distraught, and understandably so - the news outlets reported that Ahsoka and Barriss used to be best friends.  _ You won’t believe this shocking betrayal in the Jedi Temple! _ they reported. 

Other tabloids reported how Anakin Skywalker avenged the betrayal.  _ Avenger of his apprentice! _ screamed the headlines. They reported how he fought valiantly against the traitor Barriss Offee, how she had left him with no choice but to strike her down. Glorified tales of their duels circulated on the holonet, and with it, a holo that someone had snapped of Anakin Skywalker brooding while standing atop the ruins of the Detention Center, which sent a great many people swooning in their seats. 

What they hadn’t seen was Ahsoka breaking down in her cell. What they hadn’t seen was how that night, following her release, she cried herself dry in her quarters, her heart slashed cruelly by the betrayal of someone she thought she could trust. She’d  _ saved _ Barriss’ life many times, but what’s more, they were friends. They’d been through so much together. Part of her wondered what in the universe happened to Barriss to make her go mad like this - as a healer, shouldn’t she know the consequences of a bombing?

The weight of the betrayal was not the only thing that cut her to the core. Since Mortis, her senses had been enhanced - to the point where when she went to investigate the Temple bombing, as well as when she was trapped underneath the rubble of the Detention Center, she had felt the harsh sting of every single life that had been lost, stabbing at her in the Force like a thousand knives of despair. 

Anakin had held her as she cried, trying his best to send soothing waves in the Force. It had worked somewhat, but it was tainted with his anger over the hurt that had been inflicted on her. That had been comforting in part, but the coldness that had come with it hadn’t exactly helped. 

Then he had pulled out his comm, showing her the list of messages that some of her friends had left her - including Senators Amidala and Chuchi, as well as Lux Bonteri - and soon after, the tears had subsided. 

(Master Kenobi hadn’t been there in person. It wasn’t until he returned to the joint quarters that she realized he had been there with her in the Force all along, shielding both her and Anakin and protecting them from being exposed.)

She’d barely recovered from that ordeal before she was backhanded with the news that Barriss’ mind had been damaged. Master Allie had reported a strange surge in the Light Side of the Force which had ripped away the Dark that had stained Barriss’ mind. “I could not pinpoint the presence, Masters,” she had said to the Council. “I can only conclude that the Force acted by itself to save  _ Barriss Offee _ as a person. But it had acted with a raw surge of power - as such, the healers believe that she has sustained considerable mental damage.” 

Indeed, though Barriss had been stabilized and she was projected to recover from the physical wound she had received from Anakin, the healers didn’t think that she would wake up anytime soon. “She may have even lost parts of her memory,” concluded Healer Rig Nema. 

With Barriss in a coma, her trial had been quick. She had been convicted quickly for her part in four bombings - at the Temple, at the Chancellor’s Office, at the Detention center, and at the warehouse. Tarkin had tried to argue for the death penalty, but the Senate-appointed lawyer had been able to argue it down to life in prison, citing Barriss’ age and how she was likely not in her right mind due to trauma. 

Obi-Wan had told her the news in a clipped tone. She’d blamed herself for damaging Barriss’ mind, but he had been quick to defuse that notion. “You acted as the Force guided you, Ahsoka. You saved Padawan Offee. It was not your fault that she had Fallen and suffered the consequences, nor was it your fault that the Force had moved your hand.”

“But I was the one who damaged her mind!” Ahsoka had snapped. Behind her, Morai had cooed, and Ahsoka saw it, clear as day, when her masters’ eyes swiveled to look at the convor. 

“So it  _ was _ you,” Anakin had murmured, eyeing the convor. He had turned his gaze back to Ahsoka. “I sensed your presence in the convor.”

“I don’t know how to explain it, but I  _ was _ Morai,” she’d said with conviction, voice rising as she got agitated. “I was the one that ripped the Darkness out of Barriss. I was the one that stopped her from dying. And you know what scares me the most? I knew I should have been scared!” 

Anakin had reached out, trying to calm her. “Ahsoka-”

“I watched her force your hand!” She’d flinched at the volume of her own shout, then reigned in her voice, pulling it back into a low, harsh whisper. “I saw that she was the traitor. That she framed me and tried to kill you like she killed so many others. And you know how I felt?  _ Calm.  _ When I was Morai, I could only feel  _ serenity. _ It was like I couldn’t feel anything else but acceptance and an urge to do what I needed to do to save her life.”

And that had horrified her more than anything. 

She hadn’t felt like a Togruta. She hadn’t felt like a person. 

She doesn’t know what she felt like in that moment. She just knew that she’d felt so detached she hadn’t been affected at all by Barriss’ betrayal until she had woken up in a mortal body. The fact that she had the potential to be so unaffected terrified her because it was wrong. It was unnatural. 

Anakin and Obi-Wan had tried to comfort her, but when she’d glanced back at them, she saw the sharp coldness in Anakin’s presence and the unnatural glow in Obi-Wan’s eyes, and she was reminded that they weren’t entirely normal either. 

She meditates on that now, allowing herself to sink more deeply into the Force than she would at the Temple. Here in hyperspace, on a ship with the only other two people that understand a modicum of what the chssk is going  _ on _ , she allows herself to let go and plunge headfirst into the Force. 

\--

The journey to Dathomir is a long one. Anakin spends most of it in the cockpit, tinkering with the controls or bickering with Obi-Wan. Partway through the journey, they sense a surge in the Light Side of the Force at the back of the ship, and underneath the doorway, a hint of a white-gold light peaks through. 

A smile tugs at Anakin’s lips. “She’s come a long way,” he comments absently.

“She has,” agrees Obi-Wan. Part of Anakin is grateful that Obi-Wan hadn’t left his side at all. While Ahsoka was officially only Anakin’s padawan - and while he definitely did spend more time with her than she did with Obi-Wan - the three of them were close enough for Ahsoka to have formed a learner’s bond with Obi-Wan as well. 

Anakin will never admit it, but part of the reason he’s thinking about Knighting Ahsoka is because he’s certain that she’ll be at their side even after she’s graduated. Often, he’d heard stories of masters and former-padawans drifting apart because of the different paths their lives had taken after the padawan had been Knighted, and such a thing would have possibly gotten in the way of him recommending Ahsoka for her Trials. He knows that it isn’t a very  _ Jedi _ sentiment, to be so attached, but he cares so much about her. If they had known each other on Tatooine, he would have even gone through the ritual of blood-bonding together to make her his sister. As it is, he knows his path will not diverge from Ahsoka’s anymore than his own did from Obi-Wan following his Knighting. 

As if catching on to the tail end of Anakin’s thoughts, Obi-Wan smiles, nudging his former padawan through their bond in the Force. “You’re thinking of Knighting her, aren’t you?”

Anakin chuckles, fondness for his padawan seeping through his shields. “I am. She still has much to learn, but she’s come a long way.” Part of his smile fades as he considers  _ why. _ “The war made her grow.” 

Obi-Wan hums in agreement. “It did. Our padawan has matured greatly, but one cannot help but wish the circumstances that helped her learn were different.” 

“Yeah.” It’s unusual for someone her age to be Knighted. He himself had been the youngest Knighted in centuries at the age of nineteen. Obi-Wan had been Knighted at twenty-five. An irrational spark of jealousy rears its ugly head within him, and he quickly tamps it down, reminding himself why Ahsoka has grown so much more quickly than even he had at her age. 

He hadn’t been the Commander of armies at sixteen. He hadn’t seen war-torn cities and anguished civilians on a weekly basis at sixteen. Part of him feels sick that Ahsoka, alongside so many other padawans, have been forced into Command. They’re still just kids. 

They’re so young. 

Something else tickles the back of his mind, but he pushes it away in favor of another joke. “How does it feel, master?” he asks, voice disarming. “To have both your padawans beat you by years in the time it took us to be Knighted?”

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, but in the Force, a fond amusement seeps through. “Very proud,” he says truthfully, and though Anakin isn’t a padawan anymore, he feels his skin flush at the nugget of praise. “Although I do wonder why it is that we all must always face a lightsaber-wielding terror before our Knighting.” 

It’s a dark joke. Obi-Wan had faced Maul, Anakin had faced Dooku, and they had both lost something in their duels. Obi-Wan had lost Qui-Gon, and Anakin had lost his arm. At his right elbow, the phantom pain of the missing limb gnaws at him. 

And he laughs at Obi-Wan’s joke, because it’s what they’ve always done. It’s easier to laugh about those things rather than brood and go kriffing insane. It’s the only way to keep one’s mind intact during the war. “I’m sure she’ll be fine. I’d be more worried about her destroying Grievous so thoroughly we wouldn’t have an identifiable body.” 

Something else - the thing that had been bugging him earlier - comes back to mind, and he pushes it away. The conversation tapers off into a comfortable silence, only broken occasionally with the click of buttons as Anakin fiddles with the ship’s controls. The next few hours are much the same - comfortable silence, only broken by the occasional banter. 

\--

Time passes. The white-gold glow from the back of the ship fades and the door slides open, revealing an Ahsoka that’s rubbing her bleary eyes from hours of meditation. “Hey, masters,” she mumbles, and they smile in return, sending her a cheery  _ hello _ in the Force. She takes her seat, pulling out a datapad to study the details of the mission, and they sit in silence, the Force swirling lazily in a calm dance of harmony moving around the cockpit. Here, they can afford to be more unshielded, more relaxed. Nothing is said about how Obi-Wan’s fingertips seem to fade between a corporeal form and mist. Anakin and Ahsoka say nothing when they feel the phantom touch of each other’s wings brushing against each other. They all sit together in comfort, glad to be among friends. 

Fifteen minutes later, she squints at her datapad, her eyes trailing from the screen to the back of her masters’ chairs. “You two were the first Jedi to set foot on Dathomir in a thousand years?”

Anakin shrugs. “Yeah. The Council wouldn’t have ordered us to do it if there was any other way. But we were out of options.” 

“Wow,” Ahsoka says. Obi-Wan, too, had been surprised when he and Anakin were assigned to investigate Dathomir. Even Master Windu hadn’t ever set foot there, and it was well-known to all in the Order that Master Windu is the one who has researched the most extensively into the Dark Side. After all, as the Master of Vaapad, it was critical that he knew all aspects of the Dark in order to be able to bend it to his will and to channel it into working for the Light. "What was it like?" she asks. 

"Strange. Different." Anakin looks up from the controls of the ship, his eyes far away as he remembers. "It was like…" 

Unsure of how to put it into words, he glances to Obi-Wan. "Do you remember Ilum?" Obi-Wan asks, watching Ahsoka with a thoughtful gaze. 

"I do." Her brows furrow as she reflects. "The Force felt… raw there. Pure. I'd never felt anything like it."

"Yes, it was," Obi-Wan says, voice soft. He leans forward, his elbow resting on his knee as he strokes his beard. “Dathomir is not dissimilar. The Force felt raw, almost primal - but unlike Ilum, it was as if there was something  _ strange _ about it. I suspect that the manipulations of the Nightsisters over the millenia have changed the Force on the planet and molded it to their will.”

Discomfort colours the Force around Ahsoka as she tries to grasp the explanation. “Did it feel… wrong?”

Obi-Wan remembers that Anakin had thought that it would. Surely, the Force wasn't meant to be wielded this way - to be corrupted into magick and used in ways that completely broke what the Jedi knew of how the Force should be wielded. But it hadn't felt wrong - after their mission to Dathomir, they had discussed it at length, labelling it as a mystery of the Force. 

"I don't know," Anakin says. "Not wrong, but different. Almost like if they took it in a different direction than the Jedi. It didn’t  _ affect  _ us differently, it just felt… strange."

“Oh.” Ahsoka’s eyes wander back to her datapad, a frown on her face, and Anakin tenses. Beside him, Obi-Wan leans forward subconsciously, anticipating what she is going to say. He  _ knows _ what information has caught her eye - just as he knows that both he and Anakin are reluctant to talk about it. 

But she brings it up all the same. 

“This is newly declassified information,” she says out loud. Behind her, the convor coos, a flash of white-gold in Obi-Wan’s peripheral vision. “Information on the gods they worship.” She swallows hard, and looks up, a question in her eyes.

“Yes. I presume you are speaking about the gods they refer to as the ‘Ones,’” Obi-Wan says dryly. “And you wonder if the gifts left to us from the Force Wielders will affect our mission to aid the Nightsisters of Dathomir.” 

Ahsoka grimaces, nodding her head. “And what if we find Maul there?”

“I don’t know. The last time we confronted him, he did not recognize us for what we were,” Obi-Wan remembers. “I believe it was because he was not  _ raised  _ on Dathomir, and so could not understand what he was seeing.”

“His brother did, thought.” Anakin glances at Obi-Wan, swallowing hard. “Savage Opress was scared of us. He called me the Fanged God.” 

“Mother Talzin recognized me as well in her call with the Council.” Obi-Wan holds Ahsoka’s gaze, trying to convey to her the seriousness of the situation. “It is very likely that the Nightsisters will be aware of our abilities, and may treat us with more reverence than is normal.”

The corner of Ahsoka’s mouth pulls up into a smirk and she chuckles. “I’m not against that,” she confesses, and through the Force, Obi-Wan can sense Anakin sending his amusement to his padawan. 

Then the smile falls off of her face so suddenly as if it has just been struck off, and both Obi-Wan and Anakin frown, projecting their worry in the Force.

“Ahsoka? Are you okay?” Anakin asks. 

She worries at her lower lip, her montrals twitching. She opens her mouth, hesitates, then closes it again, her eyes flicking between the two of them rapidly. Then she speaks. “When I was- in the Detention Center,” she says haltingly, “I had a vision. Of myself. But- but it wasn’t me.”

Obi-Wan meets Anakin’s eyes. Visions are not uncommon amongst the Jedi - especially cryptic ones. Part of Obi-Wan wonders if it is the curse of his lineage to have disturbing visions during their apprenticeship. They both glance back towards Ahsoka, allowing her time to continue without pushing her. 

“It was a vision of an older version of myself,” she continues. “And she was dead.”

Beside Obi-Wan, Anakin sucks in a breath, his whole body tensing, and Obi-Wan knows exactly what image has just flitted through Anakin’s mind. The image of Ahsoka’s body on Mortis, unmoving, cold,  _ dead,  _ with unseeing eyes staring into the darkening sky. “Ahsoka-”

“Let me finish,” she says, a little sharper than she intended. Anakin pulls back. “And my vision - she said that she  _ was _ my future. But that she wasn't anymore, because you can’t re-become something you already are.”

Obi-Wan frowns. He has a bad feeling about this, and he’s not sure he wants to hear it. But he should. “And what does that mean, Ahsoka?” he prompts gently. 

Her face pales and she swallows hard, visibly gathering her resolve. “I died on Mortis. When you die, you become one with the Force.” She stares at Anakin, then Obi-Wan, and he’s suddenly reminded of how since Mortis, it didn’t seem like she breathed at all when she slept, and how her skin always felt too  _ cold. _ Ahsoka’s voice cracks. “I can’t become one with the Force again. I can’t die.” 

They’d heard this revelation once before in the dim light of their quarters following the bombing at the Detention Center. But to hear it once again - to have it confirmed - is different. “Are you certain?” Obi-Wan asks. He doesn’t doubt her, but he needs to ask. 

At the same time, a startled “ _ What?! _ ” bursts from Anakin, colouring the Force with a sudden influx of worry and fear. Ahsoka shrinks back instinctively and Anakin winces, pulling back at his emotions. “What do you mean, you can’t die?” he demands. In the corner of Obi-Wan’s eyes, he sees Anakin’s feet melting into shadow, his legs and boots strangely deformed. 

Ahsoka stares back resolutely, her voice certain yet laced with terror. “I’m sure. I felt it. And-” Her presence trembles, and for a horrible moment, Obi-Wan wonders if she’s about to break down. She reigns herself in, the Force pulsing as she draws on the Light, and behind her, the convor of white-gold coos, sending a soothing wave crashing around the cockpit. “The vision said that- I-”

She breaks off in frustration, her words refusing to come, and she swipes at her eyes furiously. Time and again, Obi-Wan is struck by despite how incredibly mature she is, Ahsoka is still  _ sixteen _ , and she should be sparring and gossiping with other padawans - like how Obi-Wan was doing at that age - in the Temple rather than commanding armies on the regular. 

Anakin reaches out, putting a comforting hand on Ahsoka’s shoulder. “Ahsoka, it’s alright,” he says with a false calm. Through their training bond, Obi-Wan can sense the sharp edge of worry and fear in Anakin, carefully hidden for his padawan’s sake. “You-”

“It’s  _ not! _ ” she snaps. Anakin’s face darkens, yet he still keeps his hand on her shoulder, trying to comfort her. “It’s  _ not _ alright because the vision said that you both can’t die either!”

Oh. 

_ Oh. _

Anakin jerks back as if his hand had been burned and Obi-Wan sits up in his chair, back stiffening. A denial is already working its way up to Obi-Wan’s tongue, ready to be spat out into the rapidly cooling air in the cockpit, but it never finds its way out. Already, the Force is crooning to him, showing him the universe-damned  _ truth _ \- that Ahsoka is right, that her vision hadn’t lied, and that he, Obi-Wan Kenobi, a simple Jedi Master out of so many thousands of others (who surely are worthier, in his opinion) and his padawans have been chosen for this difficult path of replacing the Force Wielders as the gods of Mortis. 

Still. 

How? How could he be unable to die? Unable to-

A thought strikes him. Of living long after most of his friends have gone, after even Master Yoda has passed on, and of the knowledge that he will never be able to join them once they have died. Obi-Wan thinks of Satine, thinks of the last time he had seen her and the way she had looked at him, and then he thinks of living thousands of years knowing that he will never see her again. 

To his horror, emotion begins to constrict his throat, and he falls back on years and years of training.  _ There is no emotion, there is peace, _ he recites, and he grasps his feelings and releases them into the Force.  _ There is no ignorance, there is knowledge. _

(It doesn’t really work.) 

But there’s no time to focus on himself. Obi-Wan is aware of the turmoil rising within Anakin, of the storm of  _ confusionterroranger _ that begins to rise, and of the shadows in the ship that are beginning to elongate and warp. Obi-Wan slams aside any of his worries about himself and focuses on Anakin, because it’s important to take care of his former padawan. It always has been.

There’s no words exchanged. There aren’t any that need to be. Obi-Wan falls into the Force, wrapping it around his own presence, and he draws on it to send the strongest waves of soothing calm that he doesn’t feel through his bond with Anakin. He’s aware of Ahsoka doing the same, and behind her, the convor hoots encouragingly, its body pulsing white-gold as it lends them strength. 

The moment passes. The shadows on the ship stabilize, shrinking back to their normal size, and the three of them fall back into their seats. 

“Sorry,” mumbles Anakin shakily. 

“It’s not your fault,” Obi-Wan assures him. With the short crisis surrounding Anakin over just as quickly as it had begun, Obi-Wan can feel the tendrils of fear beginning to creep back into his mind, making his breath short and his chest tight. “Such a revelation is not something to be taken lightly.”

He calls on the Force again, releasing his emotions and trying to allow himself to calm. Again, it only partially works.

He’d never been particularly good at addressing his own emotions. He’d always preferred pushing them off in favor of helping others. At least, then- at least he knew he was doing some good. 

At his side, Obi-Wan can feel Ahsoka beginning to clam up in fear as well. He reaches out, grasping the hands of his padawans. They need him, and damned if he won’t do his utmost to help them find their balance once more. “Meditate with me,” he orders softly, and he draws on the rock-solid  _ grey _ that he knows is within himself, and he pushes it through his training bonds. “Come,” he prompts again.

It’s a testament to how shaken they are when neither of them protest. They move from their chairs to the cold metal floor of the cockpit, and Ahsoka reaches out her other hand to grasp Anakin’s, forming a circle. Obi-Wan spares a quick glance at the navicomputer ( _ T-minus 4.3 hours _ ), and reaching through his bonds with his padawans, he guides them into meditation. 

\--

On Dathomir, a sudden horror rushes through the coven. No one senses it - no one but Mother Talzin, from whom the horror originated, and Darth Maul and Asajj Ventress, who are well attuned to the Force. Ventress leaps to her feet from her conversation with Karis at the dining table, and she rushes to Mother Talzin, who sits frozen at her table. “Mother!” she shouts. “Are you alright?”

At her side, Maul watches his mother carefully. The rest of the sisters look up in concern.

Talzin unfreezes, her face darkening. “Dooku and his minions have changed their plan of attack,” she announces to the coven, and the Nightsisters tremble. No, they do not tremble because they fear Dooku and his minions - rather, they have never heard such  _ anger _ from their Mother, and they hope never to hear such a thing ever again. “They will arrive in two rotations.” 

The sisters do not leap to their feet. They have been preparing for this invasion for months. Still, this announcement is unexpected, and dark mutters and angry expressions are found across the dining hall. 

“The Jedi will arrive in hours,” Mother Talzin continues, and Maul bristles. He had been instructed not to touch Kenobi - or any of the Jedi - in no uncertain terms. His mother had not been kind when warning him. She had clutched her hand, working her magick, and he had understood well in that moment that though he may certainly be able to defeat many of the Nightsisters in the coven, his mother was one of the few that could incapacitate him without so much as lifting a  _ finger. _ She was - and is - prepared to risk his wrath to save his life. “Be prepared to greet them, sisters.”

The sisters agree, eating quickly and preparing for the arrival of the Jedi - as well as Dooku’s minions. Weeks ago, Mother Talzin had foreseen that Dooku himself would not come to do his dirty work, instead opting to send his tens of thousands of machines and a cyborg general that will wield Jedi weapons. 

What the sisters do not see as they leave the dining hall is the knowing look Talzin shares with Old Daka. What the sisters do not hear is Talzin instructing Maul to fly to the village of the Nightbrothers to protect them, for she has foreseen that a group of machines will arrive at the village to try to eradicate them to prevent the Nightsisters from ever having children again. What the sisters do not feel is Maul’s rage as he is cast aside under the threat of his mother using her magick to force him away from the village while  _ Kenobi _ will be here. 

As Ventress leaves the hall, she reflects on a strange change in her emotions. Since she had pledged herself to the Nightsisters, she had no longer held close to her heart the anger which she had always drawn on as Dooku’s apprentice. She still has it - it sits there, simmering, ready to be called on in battle - yet it no longer controls her. She thinks of how when Mother Talzin had warned her that the Jedi arriving were Kenobi, Skywalker, and their Padawan, she had not been… overcome. She will not attack them, she decides. Her first loyalty is to the coven and to herself. But should they fall in battle…

Well, she won’t care.

After she leaves the hall, Talzin is left alone with Daka.

“You did not tell them of the arrival of the gods,” Daka says. 

“No.” Talzin stares out into the red fog of Dathomir, feeling the way the Force has been changed so that she and her coven may wield the magicks with great ease. “There is a blindness in my foresight when I try to divine their arrival.” 

Daka nods. “You think the gods may try to test us,” she says wisely. 

“When I spoke with the Parent, he was in a mortal form. They may keep their mortal forms to test the coven.” Talzin turns to face Daka, worry in her eyes. “But I am unsure. They may arrive in their true forms, and terrify the coven. I do not know what to do.” 

As Clan Mother, it is exceedingly rare for Talzin to admit any vulnerability. Yet, in the presence of her oldest and wisest friend, Talzin allows herself to do so. “Allow the gods to choose for you,” Daka advises. “Do not warn the sisters. Allow the gods to choose when they shall reveal themselves.” 

“And my son?” Talzin asks. She sighs. “I was forced to threaten him and send him away to ensure his compliance. I fear that his desire for revenge will overcome his respect for the gods. But I believe that it is better that he holds anger against me and live rather than act rash and be killed.”

Daka nods sagely again. “A wise decision, Mother.” 

\--

Mere hours away in hyperspace, the  _ Twilight _ speeds toward Dathomir as its three occupants sink into the Force, sitting straight-backed in a circle. Perched atop the headrest of one of the chairs, Morai watches carefully, observing the way the Light, Grey, and Dark swirl around one another in a chaotic harmony, each of them in tandem with the other, yet all of them in turmoil over the same question that Morai can hear through the Force.

_ Why? Why? WHY? _

She coos, sending another soothing wave to the three Jedi. Though they cannot hear it - so deeply entrenched in their meditation are they - they relax, their shoulders losing some stiffness, their faces relaxing from the scowl they had all worn. She tilts her head, staring deeply into their presences. 

It is interesting that there is a speck of grey in both the new Son and the new Daughter. Morai looks carefully, peering deeply into the Force, and she sees the threads of Dark venom in the new Daughter just as surely as she sees the remnants of Light in the new Son. She sees how the Light in the new Son pulses, how it aids him by holding him back from falling completely into evil. Just as clearly, she sees the blackened threads of the Dark in the new Daughter, spread like faded black veins throughout her presence, and she sees how it helps her in battle, aiding her in bringing death when need be, just as she sees how the Dark allows the new Daughter to relish in vengeance against those who have wronged her and those she loves. 

It is a very, very fine line upon which the new Son walks. The Dark brings death; it brings the end of Light. Yet death is necessary so that life may flourish - it is a cycle that Morai understands well, for she has watched it from afar for many millennia. She looks into the new Son, and sees how the remnants of the past Daughter within him ensure that he will not tumble, unhinged, into chaos and destruction. 

Morai turns her head to watch the new Father, who, in the physical world, is quickly becoming one with the air around him, his body turning into the same blue-green mist which formed the Dagger of Mortis. Morai understands that the blue-green mist is simply a solid, corporeal manifestation of the Force itself, and that is why the new Father cannot die either - he cannot re-become what he already is. 

She observes all this, and knowing well that the three Jedi are in turmoil, she projects her understanding of these concepts towards them. She senses a change in the Force as they sense the knowledge she has given them. It feels calmer now in the cockpit - the Force is no longer writhing in confusion, but rather swirling more calmly, a slow whirlwind of Light, Dark, and Balance entwining between the three of them. 

Yet there is still chaos - chaos over the revelation of their immortality. Morai remembers the similar revelation that the past Force Wielders had undergone thousands of years ago. Morai sends what consolation she can to the Jedi through the Force, but there is not much she can do. They must work this out on their own. 

Hours pass. Morai watches as the Jedi slowly open their eyes, moving their limbs stiffly after sitting in the same position for so long. She glances at the navicomputer. The alphabet is foreign to her, but she comprehends the meaning. Thirty-five minutes to hyperspace exit. 

“Are you both alright?” The new Father asks of his companions. 

The new Daughter nods slightly, rolling her shoulders with a small wince. “I’m better.”

The new Son is quiet, taking longer than his companions to rise from the floor. The new Father seems to notice this and reaches out a hand, squeezing the younger man’s shoulder gently. “We’ll be fine as long as we stay together,” he says with a confidence that Morai can sense he doesn’t feel. 

At the words of the new Father, the new Son cracks a smile, sending out his appreciation through the Force and raising his hand to grasp the new Father’s hand on his shoulder. “Admit it, old man,” the new Son says with a disarming smile that’s a little too faked, “You’d be lost without Ahsoka and I around to always save your skin.”

The three Jedi fall back into their usual bickering, the Force swirling lazily around the cockpit with the comforting feeling of  _ homefamilylove _ , and Morai looks on with approval. 

\--

(On the other side of the galaxy, Darth Sidious meditates aboard his ship. There is much preparation to be done for the ritual.)

\--

T-minus five minutes to real space. 

"I have a bad feeling about this."

Anakin chuckles. "You always say that." 

Another short laugh, this time from Obi-Wan, who strokes his beard, face pensive. "I do," he admits. "But can't you sense it?" 

A frown, and silence. Then, quietly, "I do."

And behind Anakin, from Ahsoka: "There's something more to this mission than I can sense."

A shared glance between her masters: uneasy, tense, unsure. 

"If I Fall-" Anakin’s breath hitches. His eyes are flecked with gold. "Help me."

Neither Ahsoka nor Obi-Wan hesitate when they respond with, 

"Always."

\--

From real space, Dathomir is a glowing red, pulsing in the Force with a strange, prickly feeling that feels unlike anything Ahsoka has ever sensed before. Even from this distance - miles and miles away in space - it feels like the Force there is crawling over the planet, caressing it in a suffocating blanket of what Ahsoka can only define as  _ weird. _

During the journey, she’d had a light headache that she’d been able to ignore. It begins to intensify now, going from a gentle throb to a sharp, prickling feeling, and she feels her eyes beginning to burn. Unbidden, she winces, her pain sharp in the Force. 

“Ahsoka?”

She waves Anakin off. “I’m fine,” she lies, but when she turns to look at him, she’s startled by the colour of his eyes. They’re a pure, molten gold, rimmed with the sharp crimson reminiscent of the colour of Ventress’ lightsabers. Her eyes flicker to Obi-Wan’s, and she sees that his eyes have begun to glow blue-green, shining with an intensity that leaves little trails of blue-green light whenever he moves his head. 

It’s strange. She could swear that it isn’t only the glow of his eyes but also  _ part _ of his eyes and his face that fades into a blue-green glow that trails after him, making his features seem  _ almost _ distorted and  _ almost _ \- but not quite - human. 

“Your eyes have changed,” Obi-Wan observes. “Am I correct in assuming that you both are beginning to feel more and more… unwell?”

Ahsoka tries to lie again. She’s fine - she’s dealt with worse - but Morai screeches, the sound sharp and cutting, and Ahsoka flinches. 

Okay. No lie, then. 

“I have,” she admits at the same time Anakin answers with a short, “Yeah.” 

“I suspect it may be connected to the way the Force has been shaped by the Nightsisters on Dathomir.” Obi-Wan strokes his beard, turning back to face the cockpit window. 

“But if we’re this affected while we’re miles away in space,” Ahsoka asks slowly, “what’s going to happen when we get into the atmosphere?” 

She looks down at her lap, where she’s folded her hands, and she quickly looks up again. The way her fingertips are beginning to shine white-gold hurts her eyes, and the way her fingers and hands seemed to elongate a little too much isn’t something she wants to look at. 

She stares out of the cockpit window. In the reflection of the transparisteel, Ahsoka sees the vague, blurry form of Anakin with a mouth that slashes open his face with a sharp red and with wrinkled gargoyle wings folded behind his back. “As Obi-Wan said earlier,” he says wryly, and though she knows Anakin isn’t smiling - she can hear it in his voice - his reflection is, the bloody lips in the transparisteel pulling back to reveal too many teeth, “I have a bad feeling about this.”

\--

The moment the ship breaks the atmosphere, they hunch in their seats as one, reeling at the sudden pain. 

The Force is different here. After having shaped the planet to their will for the past thousands of years, the Nightsisters have changed the atmosphere, charging it with their magicks and making the Force feel raw and primal in comparison to the calm murmur or the silent tumult that is Coruscant. It’s almost like Mortis - the Force is strong here, only unlike Mortis, it feels… different, tainted by continuous and deliberate manipulation over the thousands of years. 

Ahsoka curls in on herself at the sudden onslaught of her senses. It’s too much, too much - it feels like her skin is being burned from within, her muscles ripping and tearing. Pain sears at her mind too, pushing at her mental shields, pushing  _ outwards _ , and she’s distantly aware that someone is screaming. She thinks it might be her, but she can’t really tell - her bonds with her masters are alight with pain too, and she can hear them, she can hear them, she didn’t know they could  _ scream that way _ -

Then the pain ends, leaving her gasping for air that she doesn’t need to breathe anymore to live, and when she catches her own reflection in the cockpit window, she sucks in a breath. 

Her eyes are not blue but green, green as the summer grass, green like the colour of jade, and green like the Daughter’s eyes.

The inside of the cockpit is awash with the white-gold Light which shines from her skin. She can still feel the burn of the light under her skin, searing her nerves, but it feels distant and far-off, like a dull simmer that’s easy to ignore if she doesn’t think about it too hard. 

She feels serene. A deep calm has settled over her - she can already sense her own acceptance of the circumstances. Clearly, as she had suspected, something in the Force on Dathomir has changed her and her masters, making it harder to hide their true forms. Such is the Will of the Force.

She should be unsettled. She should be trying to reign it in, trying to pull back her power so that she’ll seem  _ normal. _ She should be  _ terrified. _

She isn’t. 

(She can’t be in this state.)

And that should unsettle her - why isn’t she afraid?

Why  _ can’t  _ she be afraid _? _

\--

When Obi-Wan finally comes to in the cockpit of the  _ Twilight,  _ the ship is still flying, on its way to a rocky landing with no one manning the controls. 

Force. 

He hopes he never has to hear his padawans scream like that again.

Most of the cockpit is awash with a soft white-gold light, illuminated by the glow coming from Ahsoka’s skin. She gasps, opening her eyes, and he sees that they are a shining green, brighter than it was before they entered the atmosphere. From her back, large convor-like wings shine, spreading across her side of the cockpit, before she concentrates and the wings disappear in a shimmer of light. 

(It almost hurts to look in Ahsoka’s direction.)

A blue-green mist spreads around Obi-Wan, held together in the vague shape of what his body  _ should _ look like. He looks down, brows furrowed, and tries to remember what it’s like having a solid body and not one that’s partially One with the Force.

He can’t remember. 

Although he’s able to draw it in enough so that the mist forms a shape similar to what a human body  _ should _ look like, it stubbornly remains, refusing to coalesce into solid limbs, and after a few frustrating moments, he resigns himself to looking like a thrice-cursed  _ ghost.  _

(It’s hard to tell where his limbs end and the mist begins.)

The Force is strange in the cockpit. On one side, the calm, unyielding Light emanating from Ahsoka is nearly unnerving in its serenity. He’s reminded abruptly of her words, just a few days ago, as she told him of her experience as Morai.  _ I couldn’t feel afraid,  _ she’d said.  _ I didn’t feel like a person. I felt like something else.  _

On the other side, the Force is a roiling, seething mass of  _ angerhatredragefear _ , and Obi-Wan turns with some dread to face Anakin. It isn’t anything he hasn’t seen before, but to see it now on full display rather than seeing it in flickers in the Force is… unnerving, to say the least. Anakin’s eyes are a burning gold, his skin ashen, and his face looks mutilated with how it’s slashed open by a mouth that opens too wide to reveal too many rows of venomous teeth. Half of Anakin’s body is incorporeal, dissolving into the large shadows cast by his wings, giving the impression of his skin melting into the darkness of the ship. His eyes snap towards Obi-Wan,  _ haterageterror _ flickering through them and around his Force-presence, and Obi-Wan knows with a chilling certainty that Anakin is just inches away from truly  _ Falling _ . 

He does not hesitate. He dives through their training bond, calling to Ahsoka for help, and he searches for the seed of Light that he  _ knows _ is within Anakin while sending his former padawan as much  _ lovecarehope _ as he can through their bond. Part of Anakin rebels, pushing against him, and he lashes out, crimson lightning slashing through the air to bear down on Obi-Wan. It’s too fast, too close-

A hand shoots from beside him and Ahsoka catches the lighting, curling her fingers against the onslaught. “Master!” she shouts, and part of Anakin falters enough for him to come back to his senses for a split second. 

_ Help me,  _ he sends weakly through the Force, then it’s gone, disappeared in a raging storm of fear and anger. The shadows in the ship flicker, rising ominously, and beside Obi-Wan, he senses the Force pulsing as Ahsoka calls on the Light, the white-gold glow from her skin intensifying to chase away the crawling shadows. 

Obi-Wan grits his teeth, feeling the rumble of the ship. They’re running out of  _ time.  _

The Force swirls around him as he calls to it, entrenching himself in it, and he reaches out to Anakin through their bond. 

_ Light,  _ he thinks.  _ Find the Light.  _

In his meditation during the trip to this planet, he had come to the realization that part of the reason Anakin had not fully Fallen was because he had been a conduit of the Daughter. A part of her Light resides in him still, and if Obi-Wan can find that, if he can bring it to the surface alongside the strength he can lend Anakin and the Light Ahsoka can give-

_ There. _

Amongst the devastating whirlwind of darkness that stands before him, Obi-Wan catches a glimpse of the smallest white-gold - a trace of the Daughter’s Light. He lunges through the Dark that claws at him, ripping at his presence, snarling at how he is  _ unwanted, _ and he grasps the Light and pulls. 

And a new presence appears. Ahsoka, a shining beacon in the Force, appears, sending wave after wave of her own Light into the Light that is in Anakin. Distantly, Obi-Wan hears a gasp, and he’s pulled back into the real world just in time to see Anakin’s eyes flash white-gold before returning back to their golden colour. 

This time, when Anakin looks at them, it’s with recognition and guilt rather than terror and fear. 

“I’m sorry-” he begins, but the ship lurches, catching their attention as they see the rapidly approaching ground outside the transparisteel window. 

“It’s not your fault,” Obi-Wan says, but they need to  _ move _ . “For now, the ship.” 

There’s no time to grab the controls. The ship is descending too quickly - it’s a wonder it hasn’t broken apart. Even Master Yoda would be incapable of controlling this ship with the Force at this rate. 

But there’s three of them. 

And they aren’t  _ only  _ Jedi anymore. 

There’s no words that need to be exchanged. No plans need to be shouted. They fall into the Force in tandem, palms upheld, and they clench their fingers and command the ship to slow. 

There’s a great shudder. The ship protests, metal creaking as some unseen grip wraps around the hull, and it begins to slow its descent to the ground. Obi-Wan can sense every fiber of the ship straining as it is pulled between their telekinetic grip and gravity, and he falls deeper and deeper into the Force, willing for the ship to hold together and to  _ stop. _

The ship jerks, moving in such a way that would have thrown them all off their feet and into the walls had they still been normal. The view outside the cockpit window begins to slow, more and more, until it sets down on the ground of Dathomir with a gentle thump, kicking up a ring of dust with its unorthodox landing. 

If Obi-Wan had been in a corporeal form, he would have let out a breath of relief. As it is, he’s deeply aware of every fiber of the ship, of how the metal outside the hull is scalding hot from the uncontrolled re-entry into the atmosphere and of how the different levers and buttons inside the cockpit are flashing. He concentrates, trying - and failing - to remember what in the universe a solid body should look like, and he pulls back at the blue-green mist that permeates every corner of the cockpit and manages to make it coalesce into a passable semblance of a human body. The deep awareness of the ship fades, replaced by a gentle murmur of his surroundings in the Force. 

“Well,” he says into the silence, still human enough to feel high on adrenaline, “shall we greet the Nightsisters?”

The answering grins from his padawans are as dark as the stark emptiness of space and as bright as a dying nova star. 

\--

From a distance, Ventress stares at the trail of smoke which rises from where she had just seen the crashing ship. 

“Asajj, are you alright?” Karis asks in concern. 

Ventress shakes her head. None of her sisters know. None of them  _ understand _ what she has just seen. They had seen the ball of flame approaching from the atmosphere, yes, and they had seen how it had slowed down from what seemed to be an inevitable crash, but they hadn’t seen how the Force had whipped around the ship swirling in a harmony of Light and Dark that would be beautiful if it wasn’t so  _ terrifying _ . Compared to that power, even Count Dooku or Mother Talzin seem weak. 

Ventress had never seen anything like it, and she fears that she knows exactly what is in that ship.

She’d sensed their presences. Of course she had - how could she ever forget those Jedi? But they’d been distinctly  _ off _ , inhuman, like something beyond her understanding. She has no desire for revenge against Kenobi and his padawans anymore - not like she’d shed a tear if they’d died - but she fears that she’s beginning to understand that there is more to them than she’d initially thought. 

Karis sucks in a breath. Ventress senses it too - the hairs on her arms raise and a chill shoots down her back, sending her a sharp warning deep in her bones that she can’t ignore. 

She knows without a doubt that the gods that the sisters worship have just set foot on Dathomir. 

“Oh,” Karis says with a small voice, and at her side, Naa’leth’s eyes are wide. 

Ventress turns, intending to seek out Mother Talzin. “ _ That _ is what I sensed, sisters.”

\--

Across the galaxy, Sidious emerges from hyperspace, his presence carefully masked. Even from this distance, miles and miles away from space, he can sense the sheer  _ power _ on Jedha from the vast amounts of Kyber deep in the planet’s crust. 

There are Jedi on this planet. All the better for him - as Lord Vitiate had taught, the stronger the planet in the Force, the more potent the ritual will be. 

A true smile spreads across his face, and he begins his descent to the planet. 

\--

**Now.**

_ The ritual of Jedha,  _ the Jedi Order has taken to calling it, naming it in a similar manner to the same ritual that had devastated the planet of Nathema thousands of years ago. Whatever the Sith Lord had done had completely ripped even the Force from the Pilgrim Moon, leaving it a void in the Force that makes all Jedi sick whenever they enter what’s left of the atmosphere. While the clones are unaffected by the void in the Force, even they can sense that something is distinctly  _ wrong _ with the planet. 

They’ve been scouring the area for  _ weeks.  _ Master Fisto returns for his third shift of the month, and it speaks volumes when his troops see that his normally sunny smile is gone; in its place is a bone-deep weariness that they hope never to see again. 

Still, he musters what strength he has and pushes it to his men before they enter the atmosphere. It seems to do something - their shoulders straighten, their backs stiffen, and they glance at him with concern. 

“Will you be alright, General?” asks Commander Monnk. Kit turns his head, trying to give his Commander a smile. It doesn’t really work, and comes out feeling more like a grimace. 

“I will be,” he admits. 

He braces himself for entry into the atmosphere. The moment it happens, he cries out and stumbles, his hand inadvertently letting go of the handles hanging above their head in the gunship. Commander Monnk is there to catch him, already having seen Kit go through this twice before. 

“I’m sorry,” Kit says, stabilizing himself and trying to clear his head of the stabbing  _ emptiness _ that bombards his senses. “I thought-”

“Stop taking too much on yourself, General,” another one of his men says gruffly. 

“I knew we should’ve taken a ship that had  _ seats _ in it,” mutters another. 

Despite the cold nothingness that permeates every inch of his body, Kit smiles, a little warmed by the compassion his men hold for him. It soon fades as the ship descends. 

The Force is gone here. There’s a complete absence of light and dark - there’s just…  _ nothing _ . The only thing he can even sense is the sliver of Kyber in his saber. The first time Kit had entered the atmosphere, he had nearly thrown up, and he had immediately commed the Council to forbid any Jedi ranked as a Knight or under from entering this planet. When he’d finally left the atmosphere, he’d cried from the relief of feeling the Force around him again, and he had terrified the living daylights out of his troops from such a strong display of emotion. Commander Monnk had yelled at him for hours afterwards while the rest of his men had nodded along resolutely, demanding  _ why in the universe _ Kit did not tell them he had been suffering the entire time on planet. He’d let them go off, but when the time had come, Kit had not hesitated to step back onto the planet for a second time. There were lives that could be saved, and damned if he didn’t help them. 

But it’s beginning to feel futile. They’d been searching for weeks, and they’d only found two survivors - a pair of children huddled together deep in one of the mining caverns, surviving off of stolen rations and biscuits. They’d been incredibly weak, on the brink of death, and only quick action had managed to bring them from near-death to critical. 

The gunship finally swoops to ground level, opening its doors to allow the squad to search the area on the ground while it continues an air sweep. They’re searching the Holy City this time - a place that all Jedi had been avoiding for fear of sensing the especially piercing absence of the Force in this place. But Kit is a Jedi Master, and he must do this not just for the Jedi, but also for the people of the Whills. 

The search goes for hours. Kit finds himself being forced to stop and take a rest much more often than usual, his breath coming short and fast in the dead air of what used to be a thriving city. There aren’t even any bodies left - they had crumbled to dust during the ritual, leaving behind a massive city that’s so silent it seems deafening. The only sounds Kit can hear are the scuffing of their boots and the gentle rustle of his robes. 

The streets are startlingly bare. Traces of its inhabitants are still there - a flowerpot with a dead, wilted plant stands on a windowsill, the shriveled thing still pointed towards the pale sun. Clothing left unattended has fallen off clotheslines, littering the streets and slumped over chairs. Small tables and chairs outside what used to be restaurants stand still, a teacup still present on the table, the teabag long blown away by the wind and the liquid long evaporated by the sun’s rays. For what must be the thousandth time, Kit feels a choking feeling on his throat as he sees the sheer amount of  _ loss _ around him. Unable to release his emotions into the Force, but still trained enough not to fall apart, Kit keeps walking forward, allowing the moisture falling from his eyes and into the dirt to be a tribute to those who have been killed by the vile actions of a Sith. 

They search for hours. The air around the Holy City feels stale and dead, making Kit’s head-tails feel overwhelmingly dry. It doesn’t take long for him to develop a headache. Still, he pushes forward, drawing on the little spark of light in the Force that he can sense in the Kyber crystal of his lightsaber for strength. 

Two hours later, they’re beginning to wane. None of the teams have reported any success in locating any survivors, instead finding nothing but a sharp emptiness that makes every city on this moon feel like a ghost city. Kit has long given up on some of his restraint - he allows the weariness to show like a huge weight on his shoulders, and more than once, his men have attempted to convince him to get off-planet. 

But he needs to stay. He feels- not a twitch in the Force, but rather something his men would call a  _ gut feeling _ \- that's urging him to stay. There's a little spark of hope deep in his chest that has him wanting to keep going. 

Then they hear a voice, and footsteps. 

Those don't belong to him or any of the clones. 

"Kyber!" an unknown voice calls out, and the clones quickly turn to face the new voice, their hands ready to draw their blasters should it be necessary. "There- Kyber-" 

Then, stumbling into view, two very young, emaciated men in ragged clothes appear, their sleeves bearing the crest of the Guardians of the Whills.

Kit cries. There's no shame in his actions - relief and joy, mixed with a deep sorrow, blooms in his chest at the sight of finding the survivors. "Guardians!" he calls to them. They turn their heads, and Kit sees with a start that one of the boys is blind. 

Several of the clones exclaim in relief, their hands moving from their blaster to their medipacks, ready to provide relief. "We're friendlies!" They shout. "We're with the Jedi!" 

It doesn't take long to quickly get the two onto a gunship for medical treatment. They're starved, dehydrated, and only days away from death. The moment the gunship exits the atmosphere, Kit stumbles with the sheer relief at feeling the Force swirling around him again, dark as it is. Near him, the blind boy - Chirrut Îmwe - gasps sharply, tears gathering in unseeing eyes, and Kit marvels at how Chirrut was able to survive on a planet devoid of the Force. Beside him, the other boy, a gruff one named Baze Malbus, is already unconscious, finally having succumbed to weeks of exhaustion. 

Feeling more invigorated by the sudden influx of the Force and by their success in finding some survivors, Kit comms his flagship. “I want another sweep of the planet. We’ve found two survivors - there may be more nearby.”

There’s a strange movement in the Force near him and Chirrut speaks up, his voice soft.

“There’s no need, Master Jedi.”

Kit turns to him, nonplussed. “I’m sorry?”

“There is no one else left. Can you not sense it?”

Chirrut says it with such firm conviction it nearly brings Kit to tears once more. For all the inhabitants of the moon to be gone - gone, left even without the Force - is something that has continued to hit Kit in the gut, time and time again. 

He can sense it. Chirrut is right.

He doesn’t want to acknowledge it. 

He orders a scan again. It comes back empty. 

(It’s only a day later that he realizes that Order 66 had gone out throughout the galaxy on the day he found Chirrut and Baze. Kit looks at the thin white scars on the heads of his men, and he silently thanks Ahsoka Tano for finding the chips and bringing it to the attention of the Jedi.)

  
  
  



	17. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the past, the preparations for the Battle of Dathomir continue. 
> 
> In the present, a new force rises beyond the reaches of the galaxy.
> 
> Beta: daisybaritone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all. Thank you for bearing with me - it's been a rough month and I've had a lot less time to write. I know I promised that this chapter would be IT, and then I promised that I would publish two chapters at once, and then here I am doing neither of those because I can't really meet deadlines when it comes to fanfic.
> 
> I'm going to try to update this fic at least once a month from now on. I love it, but school has ramped up. It's like our profs think that being online suddenly means that we have more than 24 hours a day. Good god. 
> 
> Anyhow, thank you all for sticking with me. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> \--
> 
> WARNING for body horror sprinkled liberally throughout this chapter.
> 
> Also: I’m in the midst of reading Thrawn: Ascendancy. I highly recommend the entire Thrawn trilogy and this new one - if you haven’t read it (or listened to it - holy moly, the audiobook versions are amazing), you’re missing out, it’s some insane quality content. 
> 
> For those of you who haven’t read the Thrawn books, here’s the context you need for the Now (MINOR SPOILERS FOR THRAWN: ALLIANCES AND THRAWN: TREASON):
> 
> The Chiss rely on navigators - Force-sensitive Chiss females - to guide them through their hyperspace routes. The way the Force works with the Chiss is strange - only young girls have the ability of foresight (and sometimes telepathy), and it usually disappears by the age of 14. The Cheunh term for “Navigator” is “ozyly-esehembo”- which translates directly to sky-walker.
> 
> Another plot point: because of this AU, Thrawn has not yet encountered Anakin Skywalker.

**Then.**

The trees of Dathomir cast long shadows with their branches. They stretch across the sky in a haphazard pattern, forming a jagged canopy that looms high over their heads. 

The moment Ahsoka steps off the ship, the branches twitch, stretching ever so slightly to turn towards her with reaching, spidery fingers. She smiles. Of course they’re reaching towards her - she’s Light. She’s life. 

Behind her, her masters step off the ship as well. Anakin’s body merges with each shadow cast by the branches, making his body look half-formed at best; a strange, twisted caricature of a half-human. It doesn’t really look like he’s walking - Ahsoka thinks his movements look far too smooth for that. Humans always have a certain way of walking - there’s always a slight up-down motion of their bodies every time their feet strike the ground. But with Anakin, there isn’t even the slightest bit of that. Just a strange, continuous forward motion.

If she looks at his face, she thinks that it would scare most people with how it only looks half-formed, like a body with pale skin and a mouth slashing through its cheeks with its head half-bashed in. Only his head isn’t really bashed in - it’s just partially formed of incorporeal shadow. 

As for Obi-Wan, the part of Ahsoka that’s still a regular Togruta thinks it’s almost humorous how he seems to glide rather than walk. His legs are completely dissolved into a blue-green mist that occasionally swirls to form a semblance of human legs before coalescing into a shapeless cloud again. 

It would be funny if it didn’t look so _wrong._ Her masters don’t look human at all. 

And she doesn’t care. She’s not afraid - she accepts it, because she knows she doesn’t look Togruta at all. She knows that when they look at her, they see something that’s not _right._

“You look upset,” Anakin tells Obi-Wan. His voice sounds all strange, as if his normal voice is layered with the voice of the Son and something _else_ , except Ahsoka can’t quite catch those other sounds. They’re there, but they’re just at the edge of her hearing, making it easy for her to think that she’s imagined it. 

Obi-Wan is looking downwards, frowning at the mist which should be making up his legs, but isn’t. “Well, I do seem to have an unfortunate amount of trouble remembering what a normal body should _feel_ like.”

Anakin laughs, and so does Ahsoka. Anakin’s laugh is sharp and harsh and a tad too cold to sound like him. “It’s alright, Master,” Anakin teases. “The fading memory comes with the age.” 

“Yeah. You’re getting old, Master Kenobi,” Ahsoka adds, and both she and Anakin laugh again when Obi-Wan turns to her with a betrayed look. 

“Of all the padawans to be saddled with, it had to be you two,” he grumbles, and Anakin slings an arm of shadow around Obi-Wan’s half-dissolved shoulders. It works, strangely, the shadow mingling with the blue-green to turn it into a muddled colour where they make contact. 

“Admit it, you wouldn’t know what to do without us.” Anakin’s smile is too wide, his teeth too sharp and gleaming, yet Obi-Wan looks at it, completely unfazed, with the same amount of fond exasperation as he always does. “Right, Snips?”

“Of course,” Ahsoka laughs again, and a part of her marvels at how it sounds entirely unlike her. The laughter rings like bells across the forest, making the trees shift as they straighten at the sound. 

It’s not her laughter. It sounds absolutely nothing like her, and it should scare her. 

It doesn’t. 

\--

The walk to the Nightsister coven is a short one. They spend half of it bantering as if there’s nothing amiss, the other half in a contemplative silence. While his padawans are bickering, Obi-Wan takes a moment to observe the changes within them as well as the ones within himself. Clearly, the Force on Dathomir has affected them in some way, uncovering their… _true_ presences, for lack of better term. 

He wonders how the Nightsisters will receive them. He wonders if Asajj Ventress will be there, and he takes a moment to savor her potential reaction. 

“Master Kenobi?”

Ahsoka’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts. Obi-Wan glances at her quizzically, and she looks pointedly at his torso. He looks down. 

“Ah.” He looks back up, and carefully moves to the side. He’d been half-inside a tree and he hadn’t noticed. “Thank you.”

“That’s the fourth tree you’ve walked through,” Anakin notes. He says it almost casually, as if it’s something that’s perfectly normal. He raises his hand, pointing towards some of the low-hanging pods which are strung up on the branches of the trees up ahead. “I wouldn’t want to walk through those if I were you.” 

Obi-Wan dips his head. “Of course not.”

He knows what’s in the pods. The information in the Temple archives had detailed how all deceased Nightsisters were buried in such pods near the coven. What’s more, though many of them are long dead - perhaps centuries old, even - he can still sense the way the Force moves through them, sickly and slowly and with a carefully manipulated coldness. The thought of him passing unknowingly through the graves of the dead sisters not only makes him shudder - it makes him feel guilty. It would be very disrespectful, after all - it is one thing to walk over someone’s grave, and another to walk straight through it. 

They pass through the pods in silence, respectfully keeping a distance.

Something twitches at the edge of his vision. He looks over sharply and sees nothing there, but a slight chill runs through his back. After they've passed the fifth pod, he speaks out. "The pods should be filled with bodies." 

Anakin raises an eyebrow. "They are."

They walk past another pod, and Obi-Wan's reason for speaking becomes clear when something inside the pod twitches and nudges the linens in an attempt to move closer to them. The lining of the pod does not break, but Obi-Wan is certain that there are bodies inside that are _moving._

"It's because of me," Ahsoka says nonchalantly. They turn to face her. The unnatural glow coming from her skin bathes the area around them with a white-gold hue, making her difficult to look at directly. “The Light is waking them up. I’m not pushing enough energy to fully awaken them, but it’s enough to make them move a little.” 

She looks completely unfazed at the prospect of accidentally making the dead reawaken. 

(Through their training bond, Obi-Wan can sense that she really isn’t afraid at all, and it makes him worry. It’s not right. She doesn’t even seem interested - just too calm. Too serene. Too peaceful.)

A sudden spike of fear, carefully controlled but present, alerts Obi-Wan to several presences ahead. He turns to the entrance of the coven to see Mother Talzin and a couple of sisters flanking her only a short ways away. One of the sisters is robed in red; the other in black, with two familiar twin lightsabers at her belt. 

Asajj Ventress. 

Behind Obi-Wan, he senses Ahsoka’s emotions darken in a protective, vengeful anger just as he hears Anakin growl “Ventress” in a threatening tone. Before they can move, Obi-Wan throws out a hand, holding them back with the blue-green mist. 

“Let us not be hasty,” he quietly reminds them. Ahsoka complies immediately, her anger dissipating back into the strange calmness, whereas Anakin pushes against the blue-green mist for a few moments before he, too, relents. “The Council has agreed to leave her alone only on this planet provided that she does not attack us. And I sense no malice from her.” 

There definitely isn’t any malice at all. Instead, as they approach, though Ventress’ face is hidden by a cloth mask, Obi-Wan can sense the sharp fear that murmurs around her in the Force. When he and his padawans finally arrive at an acceptable distance to speak with the Nightsisters, Mother Talzin bows low, bending at the waist, while the two sisters at her side drop to their knees. 

“Great Ones,” she greets, “you honor us with your presence.” 

In the Force, Obi-Wan can sense Anakin’s glee at Ventress’ terror and deference. 

“It is the Will of the Force that we were the Jedi who were sent to aid you in defending your home,” Obi-Wan says in return. He pushes aside feelings of discomfort at their submission - as a general, he knows well enough when to use an advantage if necessary. “You may rise.” 

The Nightsisters straighten up and stand. Only Mother Talzin dares to meet Obi-Wan’s eyes. “We do not have much time. Your arrival has strengthened our magicks and our abilities of divination.” Her eyes wander to Ahsoka’s form, then to behind her back, where the wings of white-gold shimmer, nearly invisible to the naked eye. Talzin’s eyes then flicker to Anakin. “Dooku wishes to pull another trick. His attack will arrive one week earlier than anticipated - we have but two rotations to prepare.”

Anakin smirks, the expression horrifying on a face where the mouth stretches from ear to ear. “Good,” he laughs, and the Nightsisters flinch at the sharp edge of his tone. “I don’t like waiting.” 

Mother Talzin smiles then, and Obi-Wan is strongly reminded of why she is the clan Mother. Even Ventress, a powerful Force user in her own right, pales in comparison to the power he senses in Talzin. As if sensing his thoughts, Talzin turns to him, a grateful smile on her lips with a hardened glint in her eyes. “Your very presence will aid us greatly in our fight against Dooku’s minions,” she says, and had Obi-Wan still been fully human, he would have shuddered. 

But he’s not. So instead he offers her a smile, and they make their way inside to begin preparations. 

\--

There’s something very funny in the air of Dathomir. Merrin’s mother had sensed it, and Merrin herself had too. She’s only twelve, her magick still undeveloped, but there’s something deep inside her that makes her blood sing. 

Maybe it’s the Jedi? Mama had told her that the Jedi would arrive soon, and that they would look and feel different than the Nightsisters and brothers. 

Strange. She can feel the Jedi approaching. Looking around to ensure that no one is looking, Merrin sneaks off. She wants to see what’s so special about them. And she can take care of herself- she’s twelve. She may not be able to wield her magicks yet, but she has a blade with her that has taken down multiple dangerous creatures during the hunt. She can take care of herself. 

It doesn’t take long before Mama notices. “Merrin!” She calls out, and Merrin rolls her eyes. Her mother is _overprotective._ It isn’t like the Jedi will harm her. And she’s in the coven! No one will harm her. 

“Merrin!” Mama calls again, sounding frustrated this time. Ooh, not good. Merrin moves quickly. She just wants a glimpse of the Jedi before the battle, and it will be worth it. 

She runs through the halls, ducking into hallways and passages as she’s led by a strong feeling in her gut. Behind her, she can hear the approaching voice of her mother. “Merrin, come back here this instant!”

Then something goes wrong. Merrin looks back and sees Mama’s angry face, and she missteps, falling into the next hallway. When she stands, she’s looking into the face of Mother Talzin and two of the sisters, and beside them stand three others - one with glowing skin of white-gold, one with a body that seems half-collapsed in shadow, and one who seems partially dissolved into mist. Merrin’s mind skids to a halt, her brain freezing, and her tongue moves before she can even think. 

“You don’t look much like the Jedi I imagined,” she says, then her brain catches up, and she wants to stab herself in the face. 

Chssk. Chssk, chssk, chssk, she’d just insulted- 

Mama catches up to her, her hair sticking to her forehead with sweat, and she runs into the hall. “Merrin! What-”

And she sees who else is there, and her face pales drastically as she falls to her knees. “Great Ones! Mother!” 

Merrin quickly kneels, her face bowed forward as her cheeks burn. She’d _completely_ messed up. She’d insulted the gods. “I’m sorry, Great Ones,” she chokes out. Tears sting her eyes and she forces herself to hold them in - they won’t do her any good. “I wasn’t thinking, I didn’t mean-”

Mama interrupts her, her voice shaking more than Merrin has ever heard it, and it only serves to make her feel worse. “Please, have mercy, she’s only a child. I will gladly take responsibility-”

Then one of the gods laughs, the sound like the singing of bells, and despite herself, Merrin can’t help but look up in wonder. 

It’s the Winged Goddess. Her eyes are stunning, the colour of pure magick, and although Merrin can’t actually see it, she swears that she can see wings of Light folded behind the goddess’ back. The goddess is both terrible and beautiful, the montrals on her head magnificent and tall and her smile warm and sharp. “There’s no harm done,” she says, and Merrin swears that the voice of the goddess sounds simultaneously like a normal child and like the voice of something much older, the tones as alluring as the most wondrous song. “What’s your name?”

Merrin gapes at the goddess in awe for a few moments before she finds her voice. “Merrin, Great Goddess,” she manages after a few tries, and she cringes. 

But the goddess only gives her a gentle smile. Behind her, the Parent watches Merrin with kind eyes, and though the Fanged God terrifies Merrin with his appearance, there’s a deep fondness in the way that he’s observing the scene that makes Merrin feel less scared. She feels a spark of hope - if even the Fanged God shows no anger, that should be good. The goddess gestures permission for Merrin and her mother to stand, and they do. 

“You have great potential, Merrin,” the goddess says. “But you haven’t yet unlocked it.” 

This time, Merrin finds her voice more easily. “Thank you, Great Goddess.” It’s hard to look at the goddess head-on - so bright is she - but Merrin tries, because it’s respectful to look at the one you’re talking to. “I haven’t been able to wield the magicks yet,” she admits. 

The goddess reaches out and places a hand on Merrin’s shoulder, and she gasps. The sensation is unlike anything she’d ever felt before. Merrin can feel her blood singing, her ears ringing, and her fingertips feel alight with a power previously unknown to her. “Our presence may strengthen your power,” the goddess says encouragingly. “Try it. Use your instincts.” 

And though Merrin has been taught that the gods should always be deferred to, she can’t help but look to Mmama, then Mother Talzin for permission. They both give her a smile - from her Mmama, an uncertain but encouraging one, and from Mother Talzin, an approving one. 

Merrin raises her hands, holding them with her fingers curled and her palms facing one another. She reaches inside herself and thinks of the singing in her blood and the prickling of her fingertips. She recalls the green magicks that the other sisters can conjure, and she imagines the song in her blood turning into something that she can see. Close to her, she can feel the sheer power from the Winged Goddess, and Merrin draws on the Light, too. 

Nothing happens. Her face falls, but the goddess only nods encouragingly. Merrin draws her eyebrows together and tries again, reaching deeper, reaching _more_ , and instead of only picturing it, she thinks she can _feel_ the power flowing through her veins, and she _knows_ she will see-

Her fingers spark. Green magick sputters, then roars to life, a glowing ball of power held between her own hands. She’s so excited she loses her concentration and it disappears, but she could care less.

_She’d done it._

She has enough self-control to drop to her knees again in gratefulness. “Thank you, thank you, _thank you_ ,” she breathes. Merrin can’t believe it - she’d insulted the gods, and they’d helped her connect to the magicks in return. She can _really_ feel the magicks in her blood now and she knows that if she calls to them again, they will come easily. “Thank you, Great Goddess.”

Behind her, she’s aware of Mama doing something similar, but the goddess only laughs again. Waves of joy that aren’t Merrin’s wash over her and take her breath away with the purity and strength of the emotion, and she knows without a doubt that they are coming from the goddess. They’re strong enough to ensure that when the Fanged God speaks - and he does - Merrin isn’t scared at all. 

“If you could do that for her,” he murmurs, and his voice seems to echo with the snarl of the strongest rancor, “what could you do for everyone else?”

“I imagine that it will be significant,” the Parent muses. His voice is different, echoing with the sounds of something ancient, and despite the joy that’s still washing over Merrin, she can’t help but shiver at the sheer power in his voice. 

“It is,” Mother Talzin agrees. “For powerful witches such as I, we can already sense the added power in our blood.” 

“Then let’s go help the others with the battle preparations,” the Parent instructs. His eyes turn to Merrin, and she gets the very strange feeling of his eyes boring straight through hers and into her soul. He smiles gently. “We must take our leave, I’m afraid.” 

“Yes, of course,” Merrin gasps out. She still can’t believe her good fortune. “Thank you, Great Ones! Thank you!”

“Care for her well,” the goddess instructs Mama, and the gods move ahead with the other sisters after a quick farewell. When Mama tries to berate Merrin later for running ahead, there’s no heat in her words, and Merrin doesn’t care, anyway. What she does care about is the way the magick sparks between her fingertips now, and how she can feel it flowing through her veins. 

(Years later, she is apprenticed to Old Daka. “You have the potential to become amongst the most powerful of all sisters,” Mother Talzin tells Merrin. And years after that, when a Jedi ship crash-lands on Dathomir after a mission gone wrong, Merrin is the one to rescue the Jedi. He’s a red-haired human with a double-sided lightsaber, and she thinks, strangely, that he could become a great friend of hers.)

\--

The preparations take a long time. Mother Talzin works closely with the other wielders of magick in the coven, their power strengthened by the presence of the gods. She can feel it in the way her blood sings; though she has always been aware that her magick was much more potent than many other sisters, she is also aware enough to notice the significant shift in her power. The taming of the rancors by the hunters takes half the time it should. Talzin then takes it upon herself to personally imbue the weapons of all the Nightsisters with the most powerful of magicks, and she is surprised to see that the gods want to directly interfere. 

“Allow me,” the Parent says quietly. His form is constantly shifting between the corporeal and spirit world; despite herself, Talzin can’t help but observe in wonder. She’d only thrown herself into the spirit world once, and it had been painful beyond imagination. It had been as if every cell in her body was being ripped apart; when she had returned to the corporeal world, it had felt as though every inch of her was being sewn together by the sharpest needles. Wordlessly, Talzin complies with the Parent's request, inclining her head in respect. 

The colour of magick is green - the same colour as life. Yet, the colour of the Parent’s incorporeal form is slightly different, tinged with a blue-ish that reminds Talzin of the precious crystals stored deep within the coven walls. He makes a pulling motion with his arms, and suddenly he pulls a blue-green magick from the air, imbuing the weapons which lie before him with the mist he had just manifested. 

Talzin is aware that this must be what the Jedi address as the “Force.” To her, there is no such thing as the Force; there are magicks, and the power that lies in her blood and the blood of her sisters. But just as the Jedi respect their way of living, she respects theirs. Their beliefs may be different; that matters not. What matters is power. 

The Parent raises his hand and the weapons rise from the ground, humming with a newfound power. “They will be stronger now,” he says quietly. “They will guide your warriors and lend them an edge to their instincts. And - most important of all, should it come to it - they can deflect a lightsaber blade.”

“We thank you for your gift, Great One,” Talzin says in return. 

“Use it wisely,” he says. He begins to walk away as Talzin gestures for the sisters who had been watching from a distance away to approach. “Should the weapon be turned on a Jedi, it will revert to its original state.” 

Talzin inclines her head. “We understand.” The Parent moves away - perhaps to help with other battle preparations as the warrior sisters retrieve their enhanced weapons. Talzin can sense the pleasure of the sisters as they test out the changes - this will definitely give them an advantage in battle. 

It does not escape her notice that even after the Parent has moved away from view, the weapons still hover in the air, held aloft by his telekinetic grip. 

\--

It doesn’t take long for Ventress to realize that she’s hiding _._

A part of her chafes in anger at this behavior. She should not be reduced to a _coward_ in her home. Yet, she cannot deny the very real possibility of her life being in danger. It is just her luck that the Jedi that she tried to kill the most often somehow became the _gods of Dathomir._ Even the pesky little Padawan - Tano, was it? - has become the very embodiment of the Light Side. 

But Ventress is a survivor. She isn’t like Maul, who is so focused on revenge he can’t adapt to a new change in circumstance. She can change. She can adapt. She’s not stupid enough to throw herself heedlessly into vengeance. 

And that’s why she’s here - in an obscure corner where the sisters barely venture, running through her katas and throwing herself into the movements of her lightsabers. She allows her anger to run free, to flow through her arms and to direct the strength of each strike. She thinks on it; her anger at Dooku for abandoning her, her anger at the Jedi for their arrogance, and her resentment at how even now, when she has finally found a home, she may lose her sisters to the hand of Dooku. 

She’s absorbed in her katas to the point where she doesn’t sense the Winged Goddess walking up to observe her. 

“You’re conflicted.”

The voice shatters through her haze of concentration, making her flinch and whirl to snap at the intruder before she realizes who it is. Ventress powers down her lightsabers, hooking them onto her belt and dropping to kneel. 

“Great One,” she says tonelessly.

She hates it. 

It reminds her of Dooku.

Then the Winged Goddess says, “Eugh,” and it sounds so incredibly like the pesky little Togruta Padawan and unlike a goddess that it makes Ventress snap her head up in surprise despite herself. 

(There’s something else that’s a little bit _off_ about Tano, something beyond the unnatural white-gold of her skin and the wings behind her back. But Ventress can’t pinpoint what it is.)

“Don’t do that,” Tano says. “It’s weird.”

Ventress makes a quick deduction. Such a behavior means that despite the sudden increase in power of these three Jedi in particular - and Force knows how they have become the gods of Dathomir - they are still, at their heart, the same people. Ventress knows this just as surely as she can sense their Force signatures - altered, but still recognizable. 

It is because of this deduction that she finds herself able to speak freely. “I thought you would enjoy having a little bit of revenge,” she says dryly, “given our history.” She knows she would enjoy it if she saw Skywalker and Kenobi grovelling at her feet. 

“Maybe.” Tano shrugs, the movement sending ripples down the wings of Light behind her back that are just barely visible to the naked eye. But to Ventress, they are clearly visible in the Force, tall and feathered and terrible to behold. “But you’ve changed. I can sense it.” 

Ventress bristles, but she doesn’t deny it. She _has_ changed. Whether or not the Jedi or Separatists win the war, she doesn’t care - all she wants is to be left alone with her sisters. She no longer cares about revenge, though she certainly would be glad to hear if Dooku were to die suddenly and painfully. 

She just wants to live in peace. 

“The Council has promised you immunity as long as you stay on this planet,” Tano continues. “And provided that you don’t attack us.” 

“I can live with that.” Ventress looks away and stands, no longer feeling obligated to treat the Jedi-gods with reverence. “I’m not an _assassin_ anymore,” she says with derision. “I’m a _sister._ Which means that senseless killing is no longer something that appeals to me.”

Tano hums. Her eyes, no longer a soft blue, are a piercing green, reminding Ventress of the colour of the magicks of Dathomir. “But I sense… something else from you.” 

Ventress _does not fidget_ under Tano’s gaze. 

Then Tano’s eyes widen by a fraction and her mouth drops open by a millimeter, and though the reaction is miniscule, it only serves to remind Ventress that Tano is really still just a child. “ _That’s_ what it is,” she says, a little breathlessly. “It’s your lightsabers. Your kyber crystals don’t match with you anymore.” 

“What?” Ventress snaps. This isn’t something that had crossed her mind at all. 

“You’ve changed,” Tano says again. “The crystals are an extension of ourselves. But since you’ve changed, and the crystals haven’t… it’s part of why you feel conflicted.” 

Biting back a retort, Ventress searches her feelings. She isn’t particularly pleased at the fact that Tano has been scrutinizing her, but she can recognize the need to see if Tano’s words are true. 

Ventress drops her hands to her hips, grabbing her lightsabers and pulling them from her belt. Tano doesn’t flinch - instead, she just watches with curiosity as Ventress extends her senses, using the Force to brush against the kyber crystals set deep inside the curved hilts. 

And Ventress jumps.

The kyber, which had matched with her for so long, is rebelling against her senses, rejecting a part of her presence even as she holds it. Long before, she had felt attuned to these lightsabers because the crystals had sung the same melody as she held - one of fear, of anger, of rage. But now, she has changed. She is a Nightsister - a part of a family, and no longer just a disposable assassin. The song of the crystals is no longer something she can be in tune with - instead, it feels dissonant, clashing against her new changes. 

“There’s enough time.” At Tano’s words, Ventress looks back up. “You can modify your weapons before Grievous arrives.”

Ventress drops her eyes to her sabers once again, eyeing them speculatively. “I think I will,” she allows. 

For a moment, she wonders if Tano will try to draw out their conversation any longer. Instead, Tano gives a nod in farewell, and she turns, the wings of Light spreading across the room before she disappears in a burst of speed. 

As Ventress sits to meditate, she thinks on the conversation, and that’s when she realizes what was wrong with Tano beyond her new appearance.

Not once in their conversation did Ventress see Tano’s chest rise and fall. Not once did Ventress hear Tano take a breath. And though Tano’s skin was shining a burning white-gold, Ventress is suddenly struck with the certainty that had she touched the skin of the young Togruta, it would have been as cold as a corpse. 

\--

The day passes quickly. The sun sets then rises again, marking the beginning of the last day before the arrival of Grievous. 

The preparations done by the Nightsisters are quick and efficient. Though they had long prepared by fortifying their coven, there are still last-minute preparations to be made - it is not efficient to prepare a spell a full month ahead of time, after all. It would be too draining. And so, many spells are prepared to be enacted. For the sisters who cannot wield magick, they sharpen their weapons and prepare a strong meal, the foods carefully and meticulously selected to ensure maximum strength and awareness in battle. Other sisters carefully prepare the tamed rancors, leading them to strategic areas around the perimeter. 

It is good that there are rancors. After all, blaster bolts are ineffective against their thick hide. 

In a small clearing near the coven, but far enough to be clear from any of the battle preparations, Ahsoka takes a moment with her masters to examine their newly uncovered abilities. 

(They don’t discuss what’s going on, not explicitly, anyway. Ahsoka knows that she and Anakin are in no state to be talking about this - Anakin is too volatile, and she’s too _calm_. Unnaturally calm. Anything she says on this planet is likely something she won’t really mean the moment they leave.

And always, always, at the back of her mind, there’s a constant, steady stream of Light that’s flowing away from her and into Anakin as both she and Obi-Wan fight to keep him from teetering over the precipice.)

Obi-Wan pokes at them goodnaturedly, grumbling at his lack of ability of flight with the absence of wings, but Ahsoka finds a loophole.

“You become one with the Force when you become the mist, right?” she asks, curious. She’d since gotten used to how her voice - and her masters’ voices - have changed, with their new forms bestowing upon them a new layer of voices when they speak. “What’s stopping you from moving constantly between the Force that’s in the air above us?”

“You’re already partially off the ground,” Anakin adds, looking pointedly at Obi-Wan’s legs, which are half-dissolved into blue-green mist, leaving him with a semi-solid upper body that hovers above the ground. 

“You’re right,” Obi-Wan muses, brows furrowed. 

Anakin barks a short laugh. “When am I not?”

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, then turns his attention inwards, focusing on himself. Ahsoka senses the Force gathering around him, swirling in calm, steady movements, and she watches as the rest of Obi-Wan’s body dissolves into mist. 

It’s not easy to watch. When he dissolves, his skin disappears first, exposing the rushing blood through his veins and the deep red of muscle. Then that, too, disappears, leaving behind a glimpse of the stark white of bone before it all turns into a blue-green blur. It hadn’t looked like this when they weren’t on Dathomir - it had simply looked like the entirety of his body was turning blue-green - and Ahsoka wonders if the influence of the Nightsisters on the Force is the reason why their collective appearance is so primal. 

If Ahsoka were still a Togruta, she might’ve hurled. But she isn’t only a Togruta anymore, so she just watches with a dispassionate gaze, noting it with some interest. 

(She remembers how the Force Wielders had said that they could take forms similar to those around them. Maybe that’s why she and her masters are like this now, on Dathomir.)

In the Force, Obi-Wan’s presence dissipates, changing to become one with the Force around him. Still, Ahsoka can sense an inkling of his presence, moving tentatively upwards. She grins, turning to Anakin as she spreads her own wings. 

“Coming, Master?” she teases. 

The smirk he gives her in return looks wrong. It’s too wide and makes it look like there’s a ragged gash across his face. “Of course,” he retorts. 

She’s not scared of his new appearance, though. She doesn’t even give it much thought other than the stray curious observation. 

(It’s because she _can’t_ get scared.)

The sensation of flying is both foreign and familiar. While she’s flown before in Morai’s body, there’s a part of her that marvels at how _strange_ it is to have a new set of limbs that’s both able to hold her up and unable to be touched in the physical world. The white-gold from her wings shimmers, stretching across the forest and through the branches of the trees, unhindered, and with but a thought, she’s lifted into the air. 

Anakin follows shortly after, a little unsteady. His movements are jerky for the first few moments as he becomes accustomed to actually _using_ the wings of shadow. He rises with Ahsoka, following her and Obi-Wan’s presence up, up, up until they’re nearly two hundred feet in the air, able to see far over the towering trees of Dathomir. 

Obi-Wan’s presence seems to intensify in the Force as he appears in the physical world again, the mist coalescing into a semblance of his head and shoulders. His hair, half-dissolved, gives the appearance of being alight with a gentle blue-green flame as he hovers in the air. “I must admit,” he says wryly, and his voice sounds like both a whisper in the wind and a shout in her mind, “this is rather strange.”

Anakin snorts, still a little unsteady in the air. Here, away from the trees, his body is solid, no longer half-merged with the long, spidery shadows that snaked across the grounds of Dathomir. Instead, Ahsoka can now clearly see the chalky white colour of his skin and the sharp gold of his eyes, rimmed in a bright red. “Funny how you’re the only one without wings, Obi-Wan,” Anakin teases. “You did always say that you hate flying.”

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes as Ahsoka laughs at his expense. “Well, yes, I do,” he concedes. “I suppose the Force was kind enough to take that into consideration. But I must say… I can’t disagree with the view here.”

Ahsoka turns her eyes to the planet below. “It’s beautiful,” she murmurs. Though the trees are leafless and the fog suffocating, there’s a strange sort of ethereal beauty to Dathomir from above. Even from this distance, Ahsoka can see the soft yellow pulses of the trees in the Force, humming together in a quiet harmony. Deeper in the forest, she can see the large, swirling brown presences of the rancors, many of them in sharp contrast to the cold green of the Nightsisters that are taming them. Though the Force on this planet is very different from what Ahsoka is used to, there’s still a balance here - a different point of balance than the Jedi, surely, but still a point of balance. 

Beside her, Anakin makes a noncommittal noise that’s not quite in agreement. “It’s something,” he says in a way that tells Ahsoka that he’s not really looking at the view. 

They spend a few moments in the air, watching the way the Force swirls around Dathomir. It’s different from any planet Ahsoka’s been to before - the only planet that vaguely resembles this one is Ilum, with the rawness of the Force on that planet comparable to this. It’s also fair to say, Ahsoka thinks, that this planet is similar to Mortis in a way, with the Force feeling so strange and primal. Yet, it’s strangely peaceful up here - the Force swirls in a comfortable balance, and Ahsoka savors the moment, so rare during the war. 

Then the Force twitches, and they turn as one when they hear the low whine of incoming ships. 

It’s incredibly subtle. Had they not been two hundred feet in the air, they wouldn’t have heard it, much less known what it meant. But they recognize it all the same. 

“Recon droids,” Anakin growls, and he stretches out his hand, already crackling with crimson lightning, ready to bring them down. His body tilts, the gargoyle wings already moving to bolt through the air. 

Then Obi-Wan does the unexpected, and Ahsoka _senses_ more than _feels_ it when Obi-Wan throws himself forward and restrains Anakin with a blue-green mist. “No,” he says firmly. “Anakin, don’t-”

Anakin whips his arm around, hand glowing crimson, his teeth bared in a snarl that looks far more animalistic than human. “Stop holding me _back_ ,” he hisses, and through the edge of Ahsoka’s training bond with him, she can sense the cold tendrils of Darkness taking root again into Anakin’s mind, slowly pulling him back over the edge into madness. 

Had she still been normal, she would have frozen. The sheer strength of the Darkness she can sense roiling in her master would have been enough to make her stop in terror, horrified at the monster wearing a caricature of the face of the man she considers to be her older brother. In that moment, he looks everything she used to imagine a Sith to be when she was still a youngling - poisonous yellow eyes, teeth bared in a snarl, face twisted with hatred, hands crackling with a horrible power. 

But she’s not just a padawan anymore. She can’t feel afraid. 

She doesn’t hesitate. She seizes the serenity and the Light she can feel within herself and throws it through her bond. The suddenness of her actions stalls Anakin, making him freeze for a split second, and Obi-Wan takes the opportunity to throw his presence around them and to pull them through space-time. 

The change is jolting. One moment, they’re in the air, and the next, they’re on the ground, mere meters away from a startled Mother Talzin and an elderly Nightsister. Ahsoka nearly stumbles, but regains her balance in time, her wings moving to pull her back up into a position where she can stand comfortably before they fold into her back and disappear. Beside her, Obi-Wan lands on his feet, his body half-formed, with a seething Anakin held under his telekinetic grip. 

_Let me explain,_ Obi-Wan snaps through the Force, and Ahsoka nearly flinches at the strength of his command. In the Force, the roiling mass of anger that is Anakin subsides ever so slightly, surprised at the intensity of Obi-Wan’s command. It’s incredibly unusual for Obi-Wan to demonstrate outward irritation or even anger, and it’s just as strange to see him use such heavy-handed tactics when holding Anakin back. 

But to Ahsoka, while it’s strange to a part of her, there’s another part that thinks that it makes perfect sense. After all, he’s the middle. The grey. The Balance. Which means that he’s equal parts Dark and Light. Which means that he will do whatever necessary to ensure that not one side overcomes the other. 

(And again, the change of character in not just herself - but also her masters - should terrify her. It’s wrong. It’s unnatural and strange and completely out of the ordinary. 

But she accepts it with great calm instead.)

“Great Ones,” Talzin says, sketching a quick bow. Beside her, the elderly Nightsister echoes the gesture, dropping into a flawless bow. “What can we do for you?”

It doesn’t escape Ahsoka’s notice that both Talzin and the elderly sister are entirely unfazed at the sight of Anakin being held back by Obi-Wan. 

“Separatist recon droids have entered the system.” At Obi-Wan’s words, Talzin’s eyes widen by a slight fraction - the only discernible reaction from either of the two sisters present. “It is vital that none of you destroy the recon droids and that you do not allow any of the defense preparations to look like preparations for battle. By allowing the droids to see what they think is an unprepared coven, you will retain the element of surprise for when you activate your defenses on the following day.”

Talzin nods in agreement. “And by doing so, we prevent the risk of an early strike should they see that we are making preparations,” she muses. “I understand.”

To Ahsoka’s left, she’s aware that Anakin has stopped straining against the blue-green bonds holding him in place, though she can still sense his presence seething with indignation. Gently, she sends another pulse of Light through her training bond, and in the Force, Morai hoots, a gentle song that sends a wave of soothing calm that stills all of them. 

Anakin subsides. In response, the blue-green mist retreats cautiously, pulled back to linger around Obi-Wan’s form. To Ahsoka’s surprise, she senses very little fear from both Talzin and the elderly Nightsister at the display of anger from Anakin, and even now it has faded away. 

“How should we warn them all?” asks the elderly Nightsister. “Perhaps…”

She trails off, a thoughtful look on her face as she considers the possible spells to cast to transmit this message. Ahsoka tilts her head, pondering the possibilities. Perhaps she could lend the elderly Nightsister - or Talzin - the strength to cast such a telepathic message?

But before she can even voice her thoughts, Anakin offers a better solution instead. “It’s alright,” he says, the anger gone from his voice. In its place is the same cockiness that Ahsoka’s heard every time he’s laid out a battle plan that he knows will succeed. “I got it.” 

“Of course,” Talzin agrees, inclining her head, and they watch as Anakin melts into the shadows. 

\--

A short distance away, deep within the coven, Asajj Ventress opens her eyes to watch the re-making of her lightsabers. She’d salvaged the materials from the shedded skin of the rancors and from the bark of the trees, and she’d bound them together with a drop of the Water of Life and a mixture of the metal scraps she’d salvaged from her old hilts. And though the pieces in front of her look so incredibly different from her old sabers, the biggest changes are not the hilts themselves but rather what is housed within. 

She’d poured herself into the kyber. She’d felt the rage, the hatred, the anger that had permeated the crystals, and she had drawn on the power of Dathomir and pushed her new self - her changed self - into the crystals. She’d felt it warp under her grip in the Force, changing from the hurting rage she’d sensed into something sharp and cold and _right._

The parts float in front of her. They twitch, then push together, encasing the newly purified crystals. The sabers float, held only by her mind’s grip, and at last, they are complete. In it, she can see hints of others - the wood modeled after the grips of the swords used by her sisters, the curvature of the hilts reminiscent of the Makashi form she’d honed under Dooku, and yet, there is something there that makes it uniquely _hers._ It is, unquestionably, something that belongs to her and her alone. 

The crystals aren’t completely purified in the way the Jedi would purify it, of course. She didn’t use the _Light_. Why would she? No. She’d drawn her power from Dathomir, and the magick in the air had lent its strength to her. 

She reaches out, grasps the sabers, and powers them on to see the blades of vibrant yellow, and she smiles.

(If she looks closely, she can see the yellow blades crackling with thin streaks of green - the colour of her sisters’ magicks.)

Then she hears it, and her hands tighten in anger and anticipation for the coming battle. 

\--

The message comes like a hiss in the shadows, both a snarl and a shout and a whisper all at once. The Nightsisters hear it echoing in their minds, in their ears, in their own shadows, and they know in their blood that the message is from the Fanged God. 

They freeze as one, and listen.

It doesn’t sound like a coherent sentence, nor a fully formed message. It comes to them like a new thought pressing into their minds, and they accept it, and then they _move._ Some sisters deliberately relax their bodies, ensuring that any droid analysts would read their body language as without tension. Some sisters chatter loudly and with deliberation, pretending that all is well. Some sisters weave careful spells of illusion, blanketing the coven with the false image of a home unprepared for invasion. 

They all seethe at the invasion of their home. Later, when the first of the sisters catches a glimpse of the recon droids through the thick branches of the trees, she allows her eyes to glaze over it, and she laughs with her sisters, projecting an image of an easygoing group doing regular patrols. “I must tell that joke to Pavri!” she chortles, and the other sisters laugh with her.

(There are no sisters in the coven named Pavri. It is a code, and the sisters understand it, and one of the sisters twitches her fingers behind her back to strengthen the illusion spells.)

\--

Mere hours away in hyperspace, the specialized squads of commando droids are activated, their memory banks filled with carefully cultivated information. One squad is uploaded with a critical analysis of Tano’s fighting style, and the ways to easily circumvent it to kill her. Another is uploaded with the knowledge of Kenobi’s Soresu, and how to overwhelm his defenses.

With a little persuasion, Dooku had pressured Nute Gunray into spending a significant portion on these droids. They are equipped with a cloaking device, making them nearly impossible to see. It is not possible to fully cloak them in the Force, of course - technology does not have _that_ advantage - but it should be enough to make the Jedi pause. 

Above their mission to kill the two Jedi, they have been programmed with a secret command from Dooku, passed on from his master.

_Ensure that their deaths will be watched by Skywalker._

\--

The rest of the day is spent with careful preparations hidden within the coven. Obi-Wan rarely sees his padawans as they have found it more prudent to split up, though he can still sense them in the back of his mind, a constant stream of the coldest light and the most burning dark. 

(And isn’t it strange, how despite Ahsoka’s Light and warmth, there is also a coldness around her? How despite the coolness of Anakin’s Darkness, there is a burning fire there?)

While Ahsoka spends her time with the sisters who wield the magicks most aptly and Anakin with the hunters and in the shadows, Obi-Wan spends his with Talzin and Ventress, smoothing out the plans for the defense while keeping his senses on high alert. 

There’s something different about Ventress. The fear that had plagued her when he had first arrived with his padawans is gone, replaced with a quiet assurance and a firm resolve to protect her home. What is more, her presence has changed, becoming far more subdued, turned from a raging crimson into a cooler yellow-green. 

“The best option is to lead the droids into a controlled field,” he says, fully aware that Ventress is paying careful attention to his tactics. It is incredibly unusual for him to be discussing tactics with a former Separatist; yet, he has a strong feeling that she will never use it against the Republic again. He can sense it - she’s chosen her place here with her family. “If you can lure the droids into a trap, you can flank them from above and in the sides, and effectively box them in.”

“Their strength lies in numbers,” Ventress adds, her brows drawn together in deep concentration. “We’ve long discussed a way to take them out quickly, but the spells we knew of were…”

She trails off, the statement hanging in the air, and she turns to Mother Talzin. As if sensing her thoughts, Mother Talzin inclines her head. 

“With the arrival of the gods, we may cast the most powerful spells that we could not before,” she says quietly. “We will cast them early in the morning tomorrow, but our casters will need to be close to the physical presence of the Winged Goddess.”

Obi-Wan remembers the time on Coruscant, a week ago, when he had thought that he had sensed Ahsoka’s presence splitting into two. He’d thought that he’d imagined it, but as she’d revealed later, she truly had split her presence, with a part of her remaining with her body while her consciousness moved with the convor. “I do not think that will be an issue,” he comments. 

Something catches his attention in the corner of his eye - a flash of white-gold, too small to be Ahsoka’s presence, but large enough to be noticeable. He turns his head, and sees the convor.

Morai nods once, and Obi-Wan gives a soft smile.

“I know it won’t.”

He turns back to Talzin and Ventress, who are watching the convor with curious eyes. Talzin inclines her head in acknowledgement. “An animation spell on the trees will turn the environment to our advantage,” she speculates. She brings up her hands, summoning a ball of green magick between them, and she throws it forward, creating a glowing green map of the coven and the woods surrounding it. “Ventress has predicted that Dooku’s minions will prefer to march straight to the entrance, relying on their great numbers to absorb any resistance we can muster. But should we animate the trees-” She flicks her finger, creating a small green army of droids. On the map, a few of the trees come to life, sweeping through the flanks and cutting great swaths through the droid army. “-we can significantly improve our chances.”

“How many trees could you potentially manipulate to your will?” Obi-Wan asks, mind immediately racing to factor it into the battle tactics. This would definitely be useful - but that means that they must not squander such an asset. They must use it to their full advantage. 

He has seen the effect of Separatist weapons on plant life. He knows that one well-placed shot from the right weapon can eliminate many trees.

“No more than half a dozen,” Talzin answers, gesturing to the animated map. “The animation of something so large and unlike ourselves requires much power. Even the most powerful of us cannot maintain such a spell for more than three hours.”

“And will you be the one to cast this spell?” Obi-Wan probes.

She hesitates, and he scrutinizes her. 

“You have something else on your mind,” he guesses, and her eyes narrow. 

“I have in my possession a lock of Count Dooku’s hair,” she confesses, and Obi-Wan feels a flash of understanding. So _that’s_ what it is. A hint of scorn enters her voice. “I will ensure that he will feel the true consequences of his actions during the attack from his minions. He should be more careful when making deals with _witches._ ”

She spits the last word, unbridled anger on her tongue, and Obi-Wan understands the depths of the rage she feels against Dooku for daring to threaten her home and family. Beside her, the Force blooms with a gleeful vindication, and Obi-Wan turns his gaze to Asajj Ventress, her eyes glinting with a feral lust for revenge. 

As tempting as it is to allow Talzin to take her revenge, Obi-Wan knows - he _knows_ \- that he cannot allow Dooku to die yet. “We need him alive,” he says quietly, and though it is well-hidden, he senses the sudden influx of anger from Mother Talzin and from Ventress. “We need his knowledge if we are to win against the Sith.”

Talzin is quiet. For a moment, she says nothing, her respect for Obi-Wan warring with her anger at losing her revenge, before he senses something shift in her mind. He hadn’t forgotten that Talzin is incredibly calculating - and he sees it now, on full display. “I will not kill Count Dooku,” she concedes. “But I ask that you allow me to create a potion for your use against him. In return, I will tell you what I know of the Sith Master.”

There is a catch - Obi-Wan knows this much. He’s fairly certain that the catch will not affect him nor the Jedi Order directly - given his read on Talzin’s feelings towards him and his padawans - but he knows there is something more to it that she is not saying. “And the use of this potion?”

She smiles. It isn’t a kind one - it’s sharp and cruel and holds the promise of pain. “He will tell you all you wish to know,” she says with relish. “He will be unable to stop his tongue, like a diviner drunk on the beauty of his own words.” 

But there is more. “And will he die?” Obi-Wan asks. 

Talzin’s smile doesn’t fade. “Not before he tells you all you wish to know.”

\--

Night falls. The potions have all been prepared and placed in a temporary storage, ready to be used when the dawn comes. In one of the secluded rooms, an image of Darth Sidious hovers in the air, created by green magick and frozen in a single moment, pulled from Talzin’s memories. Though she had long since left the room, it had been a simple matter to conjure a spell that would leave the image up for hours of examination. 

Obi-Wan frowns at the image, one hand tugging at his (semi-incorporeal) beard. A few meters away, Anakin paces restlessly, and further still, Ahsoka sits cross-legged on the floor, calmly composing a message back to the Council to give them an update. There are no revealing details on this message, of course - just a note that Maul is nowhere to be found, and that currently, Ahsoka and her masters are alright and are working to negotiate with Mother Talzin. 

Dathomir had been - and still is - liberating. Anakin had never felt so kriffin’ _alive._ He’d felt a taste of this power on Mortis when he’d called on the planet itself and tamed both the Daughter and the Son, but even so, this is different. As the hours go by, it gets harder and harder to remember _why_ the Jedi Council forbids this. The Dark is so, so alluring - it’s beautiful and powerful and filled with so much potential. Without the constraints of a human form, it’s easy to truly feel the way the Force flows around him. 

But there’s a fog around his mind. It makes his brain feel fuzzy and it pushes through his thoughts, holding back the most alluring parts of the Darkness that croon at him. The fog (and he thinks it’s blue-green - blue-green, like Obi-Wan, and blue-green like the Dagger of Mortis) isn’t menacing; if anything, it’s more comforting, more soothing than something that’s foreign in his mind should have any right to be. Still, every time Anakin chafes against the foggy mist that’s settled in his mind, it _moves_ , pulling at the spark of Light that the Daughter had left in him when he’d become a conduit between her and Ahsoka on Mortis, and he remembers why the mist is there.

He’d asked Obi-Wan and Ahsoka to help him. To make sure that he doesn’t _Fall._ He remembers the way the Son had cried out when he’d accidentally killed the Daughter, and how he’d shouted in anguish when the Father had turned the Dagger on himself, and Anakin vows never to inflict such harm on Obi-Wan and Ahsoka. 

The fact that he’s constantly struggling not to lash out against them - the fact that he already _has_ \- scares him more than he cares to admit. 

As if sensing his thoughts - which Obi-Wan probably is - a soothing wave of _I’vegotyoudon’tworry_ washes over Anakin through his training bond, and he looks up from his pacing to see Obi-Wan watching him with concern. “Are you alright, Anakin?”

“I’m fine,” he bites out. At Obi-Wan’s disbelief, he amends, “Mostly. I’m worried about who the Sith might be.” 

Mother Talzin had woven a powerful spell into the image. She’d projected not only a detailed picture of the Sith’s appearance, but also her own memories of the Sith’s Force-presence and his voice. What had resulted was an extremely troubling image of a Dark presence, roiling with hatred and rage, and horribly familiar in ways that Anakin couldn’t completely pinpoint. 

“It’s familiar,” Ahsoka mutters, putting away her datapad. “I’ve sensed it before, in the Senate.”

“But what good does that do?” Anakin snaps. It’s not _enough_. His anger threatens to boil over, making the shadows flicker around the room. “It narrows it down, but not enough!”

“ _Anakin_ ,” Obi-Wan admonishes, but Ahsoka looks completely unfazed, her presence unchanged from the serenity that had pervaded it since they’d landed on Dathomir. She stands, the movement far too graceful than any padawan should be able to manage.

“But it’s a place to start.” She waves her hand, triggering the command that Mother Talzin had woven into the spell, and they listen again at the memory of the voice of Darth Sidious. When the memory ends, Ahsoka adds, “We know he’s male, and humanoid, and close to the Chancellor. That narrows down over half the Senate.” 

“We’ll let the Council know in our report once we return to Coruscant,” Obi-Wan says. “This information is too sensitive to talk about over the comm channels.”

A horrible thought strikes Anakin then - a thought so foreign and terrible and _impossible_ that he almost rejects it immediately. Guilt rises up in a tidal wave for even _daring_ to think of this possibility -

That perhaps Palpatine himself is the Sith Lord. 

He pushes the thought away vehemently along with the rage and guilt that surges through him. He doesn’t want to tell Obi-Wan or Ahsoka about this - Obi-Wan has always been suspicious of most politicians and Ahsoka just wouldn’t understand. 

But there’s no way. The Chancellor had always been kind. He’d always been genuine and gentle. Every inch of his presence had always been filled with sincerity, and he’d always listened to all of Anakin’s issues with the Council and he’d encouraged-

Then he remembers the Chancellor’s signature approving of the inhibitor chips, then the presence of the holocron, and ultimately, he remembers the words that Revan had told him to understand. 

_Peace is a lie._

A part of him snarls in anger at the sheer audacity of him even considering the possibility that the Chancellor is a traitor. Then he remembers his dreams of Ar-Amu, of Revan, and with one violent motion, he seizes his thoughts and dispels them in the Force to deal with at another time. For now, they need to focus on planning for the upcoming battle. 

All these thoughts come in the span of but a moment. Anakin pulls himself out of his thoughts with Obi-Wan and Ahsoka none the wiser, and he jerks his head in agreement with Obi-Wan’s statement. “You’re right,” he says. “Let’s- Let’s focus on what’s happening tomorrow first.”

Obi-Wan inclines his head, the gesture partially lost with half of his head dissolved into mist. “Yes, of course,” he says in agreement, and they begin to revise their plans. 

\--

In another room, some ways away, Asajj Ventress confides in Mother Talzin.

“How did you overcome your fear, Mother?” she asks quietly. “The other sisters fear the gods. But I sensed none of it from you.”

A beat of silence as Talzin gathers her thoughts. Then, “I do fear them,” she admits. “They are powerful, and we owe our magicks to them. But fear is of no use to me, and so, I dismiss it. If I give them the appropriate respect, I have nothing to fear.”

Ventress tilts her head. “Really?” she asks with skepticism. 

Talzin gestures, and Ventress straightens, recognizing that Talzin is about to give her a piece of wisdom. “Long ago, beyond our galaxy, there was an Order of powerful women whose influence could span many systems,” Talzin recalls. “We know very little of them, yet what remains of our knowledge of these women is a mantra which is of great use to follow.”

“A mantra?” Ventress asks. Interesting. A group of powerful women that Mother Talzin speaks of with respect - they must have been powerful indeed. The only mantras that Ventress knows of are the Jedi and Sith Codes, and she wonders if this one is something akin to those. 

“The name of this Order of women has been lost to history, as has parts of their mantra,” Talzin continues. “But you - and all the sisters - would do well to learn from it. I have studied it and used it to protect the coven; you must learn to apply it to unlearn all the Sith teachings you have been taught.”

“And the mantra?” Ventress prompts with slight impatience. 

Talzin’s lips curl into a small smile at this, but she relents nonetheless, her voice taking the cadence of someone reciting a ritual. “ _I must not fear,_ ” she intones. “ _Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain._ ” 

A chill passes over Ventress at those words. There’s something odd about them - something that resonates with her - and she pulls back in surprise. Wordless, she searches for something to say, but Talzin seems to understand. 

“These women were powerful,” she says again. “Their mantra gave them power over their own fear. And if we follow their example, we may increase our own power.” Hidden in Talzin’s words are a silent admonishment to leave behind the ways of the Sith, which encouraged fear for it gave them power. 

Ventress nods. “I understand, Mother.” 

Talzin places a hand around her shoulders. Ventress sinks into the embrace, part of her still in mourning for the childhood she had never had. “Good,” Talzin says gently. “But now, we must rest. Tomorrow, we fight for our coven.”

Ventress thinks on the mantra, then on Talzin’s words. 

When the time comes tomorrow, she’ll fight alongside the Jedi - or _whatever_ they are - and she will not fear. She’ll work with them. 

She imagines her lightsaber in Grievous’ chest, and she smiles. 

\--

**Now.**

The hum of the ship is a subtle thing, faded into the background as he pours over the documents and works provided by the inner-galaxy analysts. There is much to be gleaned from these; in several of the propaganda posters, he can see the subtle strokes which denote a certain style used by an artist, indicating that the creator of these works was in awe of the subjects of their painting at the time they were working. 

He pauses, carefully reading the aurebesh letters at the bottom of the poster. It takes a little longer than if it were in Cheunh - after all, Basic is not his first language, and he had learned it solely through written texts and through listening to carefully compiled recordings. 

Interesting. 

The door hisses open, letting in the soft glow of the hallway lights which outline the silhouette of his visitor. “What have you discerned so far, Commander?” asks Admiral Ar’alani. 

He looks up, observing with a sharp eye. The slight tightness in her tone indicates worry for the health of the Navigators; the set of her shoulders tells him that the Navigators are still in the med-bay and that the Admiral is awaiting news of their recovery.

“Much.” Thrawn watches her, carefully reading the firm set of her lips before flicking his eyes towards the chrono on the wall. Ah - here is enough time for a short discussion. “What do you know of the inner galaxy conflict?”

Ar’alani’s brows furrow, but she answers nonetheless. “Very little. I know there is a civil war between a Republic and the Separatist systems who wish to depart from it.”

“Indeed. And I believe it would interest you to know that there is a religious Order which takes the side of the Republic.” He stands, gesturing to the art hanging in the air thanks to the holoprojectors. On one poster, two humans stand in dynamic poses, their bodies indicating that they are brothers-in-arms, likely seen together on the battlefield. The taller one is charging forward with his arms raised, his blonde curls flowing in the wind and the blue laser-blade poised to pierce an enemy; as for the shorter one, his ginger-coloured hair and beard are meticulously detailed, and he charges forward too with a similar weapon, this one brought close in a defensive stance. “The research our analysts have gathered indicates that the members of this religious Order - so-named the _Jedi_ \- possess supernatural abilities such as foresight and the ability to read minds.”

Ar’alani’s eyes widen, then narrow. Her eyes turn to the posters on the wall, examining them with a critical gaze. “They are not children,” she says, more a statement than a question. “Yet they possess both Second and Third Sight with no fading of their abilities.”

“No,” he replies. “It appears that unlike the Chiss, they do not lose their abilities with age, nor is it restricted to a specific gender.”

“I see.” Her tone is contemplative; her shoulders fractionally more relaxed. “And you believe that should we be able to find ourselves an ally within the order, it could potentially be the key to the future of the Ascendancy.”

“Perhaps,” Thrawn says. “The Jedi faith revolves around a concept they name the ‘Force’. I believe that they view themselves as a conduit for this…” he pauses, searching for a word, “...entity, and so, they have devoted thousands of years of research towards the possibilities of their manipulations of the Force.”

“And if this ‘Force’ is the source of their power, you have concluded that their involvement in the inner galaxy civil war may be the reason our Navigators are suffering,” Ar’alani deduces. 

Thrawn inclines his head. “Indeed.” 

He gives the admiral a few moments of silence to ruminate on these discoveries. Ar’alani’s eyes linger on the posters, roaming over the unfamiliar letters and taking in the digital art with a critical eye. Her gaze flickers to Thrawn, then back to the art projected into the air, and a calculating look enters her face. “You believe there is something significant regarding these members in particular,” she says, gesturing sharply at the poster with two humans. “The way you have organized your resources indicates that you have seen a connection.”

“Yes. My knowledge of Galactic Basic is limited, but it is enough for me to be reasonably sure of the conclusions I have formed on the Jedi Order.” He moves, gesturing to a document he had projected to take a close look at the text. “They do not believe in luck or coincidences, attributing all events to a ‘Will of the Force.’ I note this because of the significance of the name of this warrior in particular. Skywalker.”

Ar’alani’s eyebrows rise in mild surprise. It is odd indeed that a well-known warrior within the galaxy holds the same name as the term the Chiss use for their Navigators - _ozyly-esehembo_. Sky-walker. “Regardless of this coincidence,” she says, a hint of curiosity in her voice, “you would base your conclusions off of a superstition? I did not take you to be one to believe in such things, Mitth’raw’nurodo.”

“Typically, no,” he agrees. “But there is hard evidence which is difficult to dispute. We know well of the existence of Second and Third Sight; what is more, the documents collected by our agents within the galaxy indicate that the members of this Order possess similar abilities and that their knowledge in such things is considerable. It would be unwise to dismiss their capabilities.” 

Ar’alani hums. “Do you think this warrior - Skywalker - may be the reason for our Navigators’ distress?” 

“Perhaps not him directly,” Thrawn concedes. “By all reports, Skywalker is a particularly formidable warrior, even amongst his Order.”

“I can see that,” Ar’alani mutters, gesturing to the abundance of drawings of Skywalker on the propaganda posters.

“Indeed. What is also notable is the reports of his multiple engagements with a person known as a ‘Sith’, which I understand to be a different religious order that wields a different aspect of the Force. The reports filed by the Jedi indicate that such engagements - as they are conflicts - cause what the Jedi term to be ‘disturbances’ in the Force.” 

“And the more powerful the members involved in such conflicts, the more powerful the ‘disturbance’?” Ar’alani asks.

“Yes. I suspect that whatever conflict is taking place within the galaxy, a new threat of significant power has revealed itself. I do believe the ‘great evil’ that our sky-walkers have sensed is of relation to a significant event taking place at this very moment within the galaxy.” 

Ar’alani turns her eyes to another document on the screen, scanning the summary of the events of the war. Thrawn remains quiet; he knows her. Even amongst the Ascendancy, very few have the same tactical prowess as her, and fewer still have that tactical ability along with the talent to navigate the politics surrounding the aristocra. He can see her abilities at use now; the slight shift of her shoulders, the twitch of her fingers, and the slight frown pulling at her lips all indicate that she is formulating a conclusion which she will bring forward to the Ascendancy. 

“Do you believe that this ‘significant event’ is a turning event of the war?” she asks.

Thrawn dips his head. “I do not know. There is not enough information to form a conclusion on this matter.” 

“I see.” Her eyes scan the report on the wall, then flicker to another, and another. “And your evaluation on the effectiveness of the inner galaxy government?”

“Poor.” Thrawn gestures, pointing at one piece of artwork, then another. “The broad strokes and the spread of colour indicates a government which is interested in all the voices of its members. Furthermore, the meticulous focus on certain details indicates that any decision is made with too much emphasis on detail and little on efficiency.” 

Ar’alani absorbs his evaluation with silence. After a few moments, she comes to a decision. “Very well. I will advise the Ascendancy to send an agent into the galaxy in three month’s time should our Navigators not experience another vision of this magnitude.” Her eyes narrow. “Even if their government is inefficient, making an ally of the Jedi may be useful in ensuring the survival of the Ascendancy.” 

“And if the Jedi lose the war?” Thrawn asks with mild curiosity.

Ar’alani turns towards him, brow arched. “Then perhaps a more efficient government will arise from the ashes that we could use to our advantage. Regardless, I will prepare a report to the Ascendancy. It is time we begin to expand our reach within the galaxy.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I'll get to Maul next chapter I swear.  
> \- Battle of Dathomir WILL be next chapter to close off the 4-chapter arc. I know I've been saying that the battle is coming for like the past two chapters, but this time, I'm actually in the middle of writing it already, so. It's coming.  
> \- Dune reference? Ehh?? I know it's called the Litany Against Fear and that it's incomplete here, but as Mother Talzin said, it's been lost to history.


	18. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the past, the Battle of Dathomir begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for: Very graphic depictions of violence, scary body horror, gore, lots of (un)dead bodies, more horror, very graphic death scene, Nightsister magic, all that. I will put asterisks around the worst parts.
> 
> This chapter is very much a dive into the freaky parts of the Force, and what it can truly do. I’m not kidding when I say freaky. That being said, it’s Hallowe’en, so… happy Hallowe’en!
> 
> There’s also a return of some cultural mythologies from Shili and Tatooine - namely, Togruta Hunter culture and Tatooine Slave culture. See Chapter 5 for a short refresher of Togruta mythos. 
> 
> And finally… am I playing around with a lot of things? Yes. Am I stretching the lore? Yes, totally. Hence, it’s tagged, “That’s Not How The Force Works.”
> 
> No “Now” Section in this chapter.
> 
> Edit: MASSIVE Thanks to daisybaritone for being such a fantastic beta!!

**Then.**

The night before the battle, Ahsoka doesn’t sleep. 

(She can’t. Gods don’t sleep.)

She meditates instead, sitting cross-legged in a position that’s long been familiar to her, allowing herself to fall deeply into the Force. It buzzes around her, bright and lively, and she opens her eyes to find herself in the throes of a vision. 

_ Daughter, _ the Force whispers in the voice of the  _ Ase _ queen,  _ my Daughter. _

In her vision, she’s back on Mortis at the place she’d seen the Daughter’s body. In the place where the Daughter had laid on the night of her death, the  _ Ase  _ queen stands, her body formless and blending with her Force-presence in a bright kaleidoscope of colours. 

_ Daughter,  _ the Force whispers again, and though the  _ Ase _ queen’s lips do not move, the voice seems to come from within her. The queen’s lips curl into a smile, as sharp and red as a rose, and she reaches out a hand, beckoning Ahsoka closer, too-long fingers curling over and over as if to draw her in. But Ahsoka doesn’t move, staring instead at the queen with impassivity.

She feels normal in this vision. More like a Togruta than a goddess. And because of this, she feels a rush of fear, crashing down on her all at once, and her chest seizes up and she can’t breathe and she gasps out her words to the  _ Ase _ queen. “Why?” she chokes out. “ _ Why can’t I die? _ ”

She hadn’t ever gotten the chance to think about immortality. She’d had a few moments before this mission, but she’d refused to think too much about it, distracting herself with her hurt from Barriss’ betrayal. Then she’d told her masters about their immortality too, and they’d meditated together, and though it had helped some, it still wasn’t enough. 

The  _ Ase  _ queen’s smile doesn’t disappear at all. She beckons again, looking at Ahsoka with pitiless eyes.  _ Come to me, my Daughter,  _ she croons, and Ahsoka chokes on her fear and backs away, shaking her head. 

(When Ahsoka was a youngling, she’d looked up the term  _ Ase _ in the Temple library. She hadn’t found much, but she’d found a similar concept in the tales of the human-populated planets, like Stewjon.  _ The Fae _ , the  _ Ase _ of these worlds were called.  _ Faeries.  _ And like the  _ Ase _ legends of the Shili, it was said that if you followed the beckon of the  _ Fae _ and you allowed them to embrace you, you would be theirs for all eternity, unable to die but also unable to truly live, forever cursed to serve the queen.)

In her past dreams, the  _ Ase _ queen had been a neutral figure, filled with wisdom that seemed to lie between benevolence and malevolence. This time, the  _ Ase _ queen seems to lean more heavily on the side of something malicious, uncaring towards Ahsoka’s fear. The queen seems to grow larger and larger without actually changing in size, her physical form remaining the same while her presence seems to loom over Ahsoka, and with the next beckon of the queen’s hand, an invisible grip pulls Ahsoka into the queen’s embrace. 

_ Why do you resist? _ The queen asks. Her embrace is both a burning cold and icy hot at the same time, folding around Ahsoka with an iron grip.  _ You fell into my embrace here on this very spot many moons ago. _

At the back of her mind, Ahsoka knows that the queen doesn’t truly exist. There are no  _ Ase, _ just as there are no  _ Fae  _ in reality. This is just a vision.

But why has the Force chosen the form of the  _ Ase _ queen to speak? Why does it feel so malicious?

Why is Ahsoka so  _ scared? _

“But why-” she tries again, and chokes on her words, fear making it impossible to speak. 

_ You made a deal with me, child,  _ the queen coos, and a chill runs down Ahsoka’s spine. That was one of the lessons the Togrutan elders had always emphasized in their stories:  _ never  _ make a deal with the  _ Ase _ , or you will pay more than you anticipated.  _ A bargain to keep balance. I prefer  _ balance,  _ child. You were not meant to return, but you did. And so now you pay the price - a life for a life. _

Ahsoka knows this already. The vision of her older self had told her as much, and she’d meditated on this with her masters. Then a thought strikes her, and her stomach drops. She can’t help it - she blurts it out, but she has enough of a conscience to word it properly. “What are the full terms of this bargain?”

She thinks of the Force Wielders on Mortis, locked away for millenia upon millenia on end, and she thinks of the possibility of being isolated with no one but her masters for eternity. It wouldn’t be awful, she supposes - they’d have each other, and she’d long hoped to grow old and die with them one day - but there’s a difference between spending a lifetime together and spending an eternity together. 

(She tries desperately not to think of how they’d died - how the Daughter’s life had ended because of her brother, and how the Father had killed himself, using the last of his energy to take his Son with him.)

The queen’s grip tightens. She gives no answer as the Force swirls around Ahsoka with a horrifying whirlwind, and her eyes snap open as she’s pulled out of her vision. 

Then she frowns. Why was she so scared, exactly? She thinks back on the events of her vision, turning them over in her head, and she finds nothing to be terrified about. The only thing she feels is calmness and serenity, and she is glad for it. 

“You alright, Snips?” 

Anakin’s voice draws her out of her thoughts. She studies him briefly, thinking on what she’d discovered in their group meditation on the way to Dathomir, and she dismisses the possibility that she’d thought of in her vision - the possibility that one day, the three of them would lead to the destruction of one another. After all, the original Son hadn’t had a shining Light hidden in the very core of his being, just like how the original Daughter hadn’t had a single bit of Dark within her. Ahsoka thinks on this, thinks on how she and her masters are more balanced than the original Force wielders, and she feels at peace.

She gives Anakin a soft smile. “Of course.”

And she stands, preparing herself for the upcoming battle.

\--

The night before the battle, Anakin doesn’t sleep. 

(He’s a child of the Force. He knows that gods never sleep.)

Instead, after some coaxing on Obi-Wan’s part, Anakin grudgingly agrees to spend the night in meditation instead. Strangely, it’s not as difficult as he’d anticipated. The Force is  _ loud  _ here, a constant whisper that hisses and murmurs into his ears, and it doesn’t really take him much effort before he falls deeply into a meditative trance. 

When he opens his eyes again, he half-expects himself to be back on Tatooine. But he isn’t. He sees instead the inside of Padmé’s apartment at the  _ 500 Republica,  _ the sunlight filtering gently through the windows of the bedroom. A woman made of the shifting sands of Tatooine sits on the bed, the grains whirling together to form the shape of a pregnant Shmi Skywalker. 

“Ar-Amu,” Anakin says, dipping his head in respect. It’s no longer surprising to be visited by her, but it’s a little shocking nonetheless to find the vision set in this place. “Why are we here?”

Ar-Amu smiles, the movement rippling across the grains of sand forming her body. Not a single grain falls to the ground - they all swirl around her in a beautiful formation, creating a near-human form that seems to glide when it moves.  _ This is what you call your true home, is it not?  _ She asks. 

There’s no accusation in her voice. Anakin had never felt any guilt at his hatred of Tatooine - it’d been a place of entrapment, of slavery and scum - but he’d still carried part of the desert within him at all times. It still lives in him now, clearly, for why else would Ar-Amu be speaking to him?

But Tatooine isn’t his home.  _ This _ is home - where Padmé is, he knows he’ll always find a home. 

It’s also at this moment that he realizes that he feels… calmer. More grounded, with a mind that isn’t pushing against the madness of the Dark Side. His mind feels clearer, too, without the customary blue-green fog that he’s used to having around him as Obi-Wan works to protect him from the most corrupting influences of the Dark.

“It is,” he says, answering Ar-Amu’s question.

Something in her smile changes, changing from warmth to melancholy.  _ Oh, my son,  _ she murmurs,  _ I am sorry that you have been given this burden.  _

Anakin frowns. He opens his mouth to ask what exactly she’s referring to, then he stops, and closes his mouth again, remembering the last time they had spoken. Bitterness surges up within him again as he remembers how Ar-Amu had explained his fate. 

The Slave Who Makes Free. 

Instead of saying anything else, he asks her instead, “And the Sith Master? Is he who I think it is?”

He pushes away again the thought of Palpatine being the Sith Master. It’s impossible. It just… isn’t. Anakin  _ knows _ that Palpatine is a good man. Maybe he was being manipulated against his will by the Sith, but surely, Palpatine is sincere and kind. He has to be. 

_ Steal the moon, my son,  _ Ar-Amu says in reply, and Anakin grits his teeth. That’s not helpful at all. 

“I need answers,” he bites out with some acid, but Ar-Amu only reaches out and squeezes his shoulder, the shifting sands feeling somehow like the touch of another human. His stomach churns. “It can’t be- it can’t be Palpatine, because I know it isn’t-”

_ Search your feelings,  _ Ar-Amu counsels.  _ You will find the truth.  _

Terror mixed with bitterness and anger comes to a peak within him. “It’s not enough!” he shouts at her, and for a moment, he just wants to find something to let out his feelings on, because it’s just too much, too much, he just wants this kriffing Sith to be  _ dead- _

For a brief moment, Ar-Amu looks at him with a picture of surprise, and then it happens. The emotions explode out of Anakin, devastating the inside of the  _ 500 Republica  _ and ripping through the grains of sand forming Ar-Amu’s form, blasting her into a million grains of sand that crumble to the ground. Anger turns to horror, and Anakin falls to his knees, reaching helplessly outwards. “Oh, no, no, no- I’m sorry, Ar-Amu, I- ”

Unbidden, a sudden memory pushes itself into his mind, cutting off his words as something draws this memory to the surface. A memory of the Father’s words, ringing in Anakin’s ears on Mortis. 

_ My children and I can manipulate the Force like no other. Therefore, it was necessary to withdraw from the temporal world and live here as anchorites. One cannot imagine what pain it is to have such love for your children and to know they could tear apart the very fabric of the universe.  _

Anakin stares at his hands, then at the devastation he’d unleashed around himself in a moment where he’d lost control, and the horror in his gut begins to rise even more. He looks again at the crumbled pile of sand at his feet - the pile that had used to hold the form of Ar-Amu - and as he watches, the sands begin to shift, swirling round and round, before settling on a form that makes him catch his breath. 

He stares at the shape of a decapitated Tusken child’s head, and bile begins to rise in his throat. Shame bursts through his chest, making his head dizzy and his arms weak, and before anything more happens, Ar-Amu speaks, her voice soft and filled with sadness as it rings in his mind. 

_ Remember the extent of your power, my son,  _ she whispers.  _ Now wake.  _

And his eyes snap open. 

Why does he feel so horrified? 

His mind feels foggy again - rage and coldness, red and sharp, mulls around his thoughts, dulled by a blue-green mist that always keeps him grounded. He frowns, trying to remember what he’d seen in meditation - he’d had a vision, right? - but it seeps through his mind like grains of sand falling through his fingers. 

He shakes his head, allowing his eyes to wander around the room. Beside him, he sees Ahsoka coming out of a vision of her own, a soft frown on her face. He tilts his head. “You alright, Snips?” he asks with worry. 

She turns to face him, green eyes startling in their brightness, and she shakes her head, the corners of her lips turning up into a gentle smile. “Of course.”

He dips his head, acknowledging her response, and he stands to prepare for battle.

\--

The night before the battle, Obi-Wan doesn’t sleep.

(It makes sense. He’d noticed how he hadn’t even needed to eat, either, and neither did his padawans.)

Instead, in the midst of his meditation, he opens his eyes to find himself surrounded by the blue-green flames of the altar of Mortis. 

The flames seem to flicker, blinking in and out of his vision, before a figure emerges from beyond the flames. 

“I did not expect to see you here,” Obi-Wan says in greeting. 

“You are my legacy,” the Father says in return. “I truly became one with the Force when I died. And so are you.” 

They stand in silence, the Father of Mortis and his legacy, before Obi-Wan breaks it with curiosity. 

“We were told we cannot die.” Out of habit, Obi-Wan strokes his beard, contemplating the revelations Ahsoka had thrust upon him and Anakin on the trip to Dathomir. “Yet there is a way, is there not? A key, much like the Dagger of Mortis.”

“The Dagger was lost when I passed on.” The Father dips his head. “No being can ever enter that prison again. It is lost in the Force; just as how your sanctuary shall be lost when you leave it.”

Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow.  _ “My _ sanctuary?” he asks, incredulous. “Surely, you can’t mean that we are to be locked away as well!”

The Father only shakes his head. “We were not forced to isolate ourselves on Mortis,” he corrects. “We chose to remove ourselves from the galaxy willingly.”

Doubt colours Obi-Wan’s voice. “Even your Son?”

“Even my Son,” the Father confirms. A frown tugs on his lips. “It was my Daughter who went the most unwillingly to our Sanctuary. My Son saw the harm he could do and willingly brought himself to the Sanctuary before he truly Fell so that he might stop himself from harming others; but my Daughter, she saw only the good she could do, and the good she could not do if she were to be locked away.” 

Obi-Wan stares, lost in his thoughts, as he tries to imagine deliberately locking himself and his padawans away from the galaxy. He knows they would both chafe against such an idea - what is more, he himself chafes against the idea, too, unwilling to abandon a galaxy at war. 

“I do not know if we would do the same,” he confesses. “There is too much at stake should we remove ourselves from the galaxy.” 

“Then you will tear apart the very fabric of the universe.” The Father gestures, the movements sharp with warning, and his eyes narrow. “Know this; should your Son fall in league with the Sith, there little that even you can do to undo the destruction that will be wrought across the galaxy.” 

Then he reaches forward, his finger striking the center of Obi-Wan’s forehead, and Obi-Wan snaps his eyes open to see his padawans emerging from their visions. 

Why was he so concerned?

He thinks back to the vision he’s just had, but the memory of it is foggy, the words blurring together like mist, and he shakes his head. Now is not the time to dwell on a vision.

For now, he will prepare for battle. 

\--

An hour before dawn, the youngest of the Nightsisters are hidden in the deepest rooms in the coven. A spell is woven over their hiding place; no one will find them, for the entrance to their room looks like solid rock. But if need be, there is a back exit - one which opens into a well-hidden clearing that cannot be boxed in. The children are huddled together, singing songs to try and lift their spirits, while the older girls stand on high alert, ready to fight to their last breath if need be. Amongst them is Merrin, her fingers crackling with her newfound power, and she tries to teach the others in the room how to reach the magick within them. 

Minutes later, another pair of hands shakes as magick leaps from their fingertips. Then another comes alight with power. Then another. Then another. And together, they stand ready to defend the last of their home if it ever comes to it. 

\--

Elsewhere in the coven, a dozen lines are set up. Sister after sister walks through the potion of invisibility that Ventress, Karis, and Naa’leth had used when they had tried to kill Dooku. It doesn’t take long - the potion depletes itself quickly with so many sisters using it. Soon, the room is filled with the shadowy figures of the Nightsister warriors, their forms hidden from view and difficult to see to all except each other. 

One of them - Ventress - leaps atop a jutting rock formation so that all may see her. “Remember our plans, sisters,” she reminds them. “Take to the trees in the formations we had discussed. We will attack them from above and below.”

The Nightsister Warriors do not wield magick - the ones who do, the Mages, are elsewhere in the coven. Still, it makes them no less deadly - their abilities with their long hunting knives and their plasma bows turns them into a group of formidable warriors. Combine that with their newly enhanced stealth and the leadership of Ventress, and they will be a force to be reckoned with. 

On Ventress’ signal, they move out, quickly dispersing to their positions. Ventress is the last to go - before she leaves the room, she pauses, then turns her head. 

There’s another presence in the room that’s just as incorporeal as she is at the moment, yet it’s not the presence of a sister. 

_ Good luck, my dear _ , whispers the taunting voice of Obi-Wan Kenobi on the non-existent wind, and she rolls her eyes. 

“As if I need it,” she mutters. “I have your dumb Jedi luck on my side.”

His laughter, completely silent in the air, rings in her ears as she leaves the room. 

\--

In another hidden room in the coven, Old Daka sits with the being that used to be a Togruta padawan, but is now so much more. Around them, other sister casters sit in a circle, with Mother Talzin sitting closest to the door. 

Ahsoka sits cross-legged next to the elderly Nightsister, the white-gold glow from her skin bathing the walls with its light. On her seat, Daka sits with her eyes closed in a meditative posture, drawing in one slow breath, then another, then another. With each breath, Daka feels her own power growing, her magick rising in its potency. 

To the side, Ahsoka sits with her eyes half-closed and her chest completely still. She draws no breath - she doesn’t need to. Daka senses a strange pulse of power from the Winged Goddess, then it suddenly  _ moves _ , going from the body of the Goddess into a near-invisible convor that Daka can just barely sense. 

Then the convor vanishes in a burst of speed, too fast for the inner eye to follow, and Daka awaits her signal.

\--

Outside, the rancor-riders race to their mounts. Though they have become like shadow thanks to the potion of invisibility, their rancors recognize them by smell, and they do not move to throw the unseen weight off their backs. 

They form a quiet perimeter, and they wait. 

\--

At this time, the recon droids have long since retreated, moving back to their ships in preparation for the upcoming battle. Now, the larger ships descend through the atmosphere, cutting through the crimson fog with a sharp whine that’s near-indiscernible on the ground. But to Ahsoka, whose consciousness is two hundred feet in the air in the form of Morai, she hears it and hears it well. 

_ They’re coming, Master,  _ she sends through her bond, and she senses an affirmation from Anakin mixed with a buzzing anticipation for the coming battle. 

\--

On the other side of the planet, a singular shuttle breaks through the atmosphere and makes its way towards the Nightbrother dwellings. Though it cannot be heard from the ground, its arrival brings with it a sharp warning in the Force, and Maul snaps his head up as he senses the upcoming danger. 

“Brothers!” he snarls, and his voice rings through the village. It is a simple trick to use the Force to amplify his voice - he’d known how to do it since he was a child. “They are arriving. Prepare for battle.” 

The Nightbrothers had worked quickly in the two days since Maul had arrived with a warning. The village had erected tall walls of stone, pulling it from their surroundings to ensure that when the droids arrive, they will arrive to find a bottleneck that will make it easier to deal with them. It had been easier than Maul had anticipated - the arrival of the Fanged God on the planet had strengthened the brothers twofold, making their blood sing with power that made it twice as easy to lift heavy stone. It had also made them faster in combat - despite himself, Maul had been somewhat impressed at their renewed prowess as he had prepared them for combat. He’d nearly been able to forget the fact that there were  _ Jedi _ on this planet. 

Then he had seen Savage. 

Savage, who he’d thought had died when he’d woken up in a Jedi prison cell with a gap in his memory and with no one at the other end of his bond with his brother. Savage, who had been the one to aid him in a quest for revenge. 

Savage, who is now small and weak and stripped of his power, and lacking the brutish anger that had permeated his presence when he had been Maul’s apprentice. 

Maul hadn’t even realized that he’d spoken Savage’s name out loud until Savage had turned to look at him with surprise and caution on his face. 

“Brother?” Savage had replied cautiously, and for a moment, it had been just the two of them, and Maul had revelled in this strange feeling of joy at finding out that his brother was  _ alive. _

“Savage,” he’d breathed again in response, and he’d had this sudden urge to run forward and to clasp arms with his brother to ensure that he was truly there, that he really was in front of him. For a moment, it really was just the two of them, brother looking at brother, drinking in the revelation that the other had survived.

Then anger had swept through him like a tidal wave, burning and destructive, and he’d twisted his face in a rage. “Kenobi did this,” he’d snarled, the desire for revenge burning within him. “He made you  _ weak _ and stripped you of your power.” 

Emotions had flashed across Savage’s face, too fast for the eye to follow but easy to sense in the Force. Anger. Fear. Resentment. And, worst of all, bitterness towards… Maul? 

“The  _ Parent _ did this,” Savage had corrected shortly. “Do you not  _ remember _ what he-” Savage had cut himself off, unnamed thoughts flashing across his eyes as he’d understood. 

_ “Kenobi _ took my memory,” Maul had growled back. A thought had struck him then - an idea of revenge. Perhaps he himself wouldn’t be able to kill Kenobi - not with the insufferable Jedi’s newfound  _ powers. _

But surely, the Jedi Order knew nothing of Kenobi’s new abilities. Maul had spent enough time under Sidious to understand that the Jedi Council was stagnant, unwavering, and fearful of change. If they learned of Kenobi’s true power… 

What better way to punish a Jedi than to make him an outcast in his own home?

Savage had shaken his head, bitterness making his presence sour. “Be it on your grave, brother,” he’d said, voice heavy, and he’d moved away to help with preparations. 

Now, two days later, Maul thinks again on his plan for revenge against Kenobi. A smile curls his lips. Good. A plan. A goal to be achieved after these droids are dealt with. 

Pulled out of his ruminations with the thought of the droids, Maul’s smile disappears, sensing the approaching danger in the Force. There’s just one ship approaching - perhaps…?

Maul reaches out, grasping the ship with the Force, intending to pull it down. As if sensing his intent, the ship opens fire, forcing him to draw his saber and to lose his Force-grip on the ship in order to deflect the shots. 

From above, on one of the high ledges surrounding the village, there’s a loud groan. It begins as a soft sound, like the crumbling of rock, then it snowballs, growing louder and louder as a boulder pushed by a couple of Nightbrothers hidden on the top of the cliffs begins to gain speed. Three brothers leap in front of Maul, armed with rudimentary shields to deflect the blasts of the ship. It’s not enough to last indefinitely - it’s enough to stave off a dozen shots at best. But that’s all they need. Taking the opportunity, Maul deactivates his saber and reaches out, pulling on his roiling hatred of these metal abominations that  _ dare _ to invade his home, and he shouts. The sound comes like a snarl and a roar, animalistic in its nature, and the boulder that was dropped by his brothers shoots up and slams into the hull of the invading ship, thrown by the strength of Maul’s seething rage. 

For a moment, there’s silence. Then the sound hits them - the resounding crash of rock against metal - and the ship falls, first slowly, then faster and faster until it slams into the ground with the boulder, and with it comes the sharp cracks of tree branches and the dull  _ thump  _ as it kicks up the dirt around the site of its impact. The dust washes over the walls of the village and over Maul and the three brothers, but he’s wary.

It’s not over. The sense of danger that he can sense in the Force still rings loudly, a keening wail that puts him on edge and makes his blood sing with anticipation for battle. 

He stares at the site of the crash, waiting for the moment, and-

A panel from the wrecked ship creaks open. A long arm extends from within the ship, small bundles attached to the appendage. Then the bundles unfold and drop to the ground, malevolent red eyes glowing to life, and the battle droids extend their arms and begin their advance. It seems the crash had not been enough to destroy the portion of the ship that contained the army within. 

Maul growls, his lightsaber once again alive in his hand, pulsing with its burning fire, and he rushes forward to meet the army with his brothers. 

\--

On the other side of the planet, the Nightsisters wait. 

The warning comes like a whisper and a snarl and a growl all at once, ringing in their ears and soundless in the air, a warning of the Fanged God to the sisters as the shadows around their feet flicker and snap at their heels for a moment. 

_ They’re coming, _ he warns them, his voice as quiet as a breeze and as loud as a rancor’s roar.  _ Prepare yourselves. _

And they do. Atop the trees, sisters cloaked in the potion of invisibility ready their bows. On the ground, the rancor-riders direct their mounts. Near the roots of the trees, the Nightsister Warriors ready their blades, and near the entrance to the coven Asajj Ventress draws her lightsabers, relishing in the crackling yellow-green of their colour. 

Deep in the coven, Mother Talzin drops to her knees, pushing her hands into the ground, and she closes her eyes, drawing on the power of the Winged Goddess and on the potency of her own magick. The power surges through her blood, singing with excitement, and she snaps her eyes open to begin her spell. Around her, most of the other sisters hold out their hands, lending her their strength. 

Most, but one. 

\--

Outside the coven, Ventress hears it the moment the ships break the atmosphere. It’s hard to miss, especially for her - she’d spent over two years of her life fighting alongside those damned droids. Anger stirs, hot in her gut - was it not enough for Dooku that he’d betrayed her and left her for dead?

She imagines him with her lightsaber in his gut. A satisfying image - but for another day. 

Around her, the shadows seem to loom more ominously than before, quivering slightly as if there’s something moving between them that she can’t see with her naked eye. What does make her uneasy is that while she knows that Skywalker (she  _ knows _ her sisters call him the Fanged God, and that he’s powerful and he’s got a grudge against her, but she can’t think of him as anything else other than  _ Skywalker, _ thrice-damned and annoying as any Sith hells) is in the shadows, she can’t sense him at all. It’s as if his presence had become one with the Force of the planet, the same kaleidoscope of colours as the dull colour of the dying trees and the sharp green of the Nightsisters around her. 

There’s a high whine that pierces through the air that immediately draws her out of her thoughts. Missiles, shot from the ships, slice through the silence of Dathomir and slam into the pillars upholding the entrance to the coven, destroying stone and pulverising their foundations with a resounding crash that makes Ventress’ ears ring. Her eyes narrow as she feels her rage burning in her gut. 

There were no sisters at the entrance. She’d anticipated that it would be the first target, and she was right. Instead, she and the other warriors had taken cover at the roots of the trees, far enough away from the entrance to not get hit by debris, but close enough to be able to retreat as a last resort if need be. 

She thinks she hears a clank in the distance, but she’s not sure. 

At the edge of her vision, Ventress sees Karis glancing over at her, unwilling to say anything into the silence but needing some reassurance. Ventress turns her head ever so slightly, giving her sister a nod, and she turns back to watch the forest.

Ah. Another clank. She’s certain she didn’t imagine it this time. 

The sound begins to grow, starting first as a quiet buzz before growing louder and louder into an unstoppable rumble - the sound of a thousand metal feet marching as one. Under the rumble, Ventress can hear the sounds of rolling metal - the sound of a squadron of droidekas. 

Dooku certainly hadn’t spared any expense at eliminating her home. Her rage boils in anticipation, so hot and searing in her stomach as she clutches at her sabers, that she nearly jumps when a voice passes by her ear. 

“Patience,” it whispers, passing by her like a gust of blue-green wind, and only years of training to control her rage prevents her from snapping at the passing voice. Even so, she rolls her eyes, projecting her annoyance deeply into the Force. 

“Don’t  _ do _ that, Kenobi,” she mutters under her breath, and she ignores the chuckle she hears in her mind. 

“It’s as you predicted,” the voice on the wind murmurs. To Ventress, it sounds like Kenobi’s voice is coming from everywhere, from the fog and from the trees and from the ground underneath her boots, but one look around her dissuades her from the notion. Beside her, Karis stares forward, completely unaware of Kenobi’s conversation with Ventress. “The droids are marching straight for the coven doors and are relying solely on their sheer numbers to overwhelm the Nightsisters. As for Grievous, he has yet to enter the atmosphere.” 

“Coward,” Ventress hisses. Perhaps Dooku may not be here, but she’ll settle for the next best thing. She itches to bury her sabers into Grievous - the coward. He’d always entered the battle after his droids, never leading the front. “He’s  _ mine.” _

Amusement leaks through the air. “Of course, my dear,” Kenobi purrs. “He will be yours to kill.” 

She stares forward, her blood humming in anticipation of the coming battle. Though the fog is heavy and the trees thick, she can already see the beginnings of the droids in the far distance, their metal coverings glinting a sharp silver in the Dathomir air. Up in the trees, movement catches her eye - the movement of her archer sisters, drawing their bows in preparation. Though she can’t see the others, she knows there are dozens more, scattered throughout the forest. 

The sound of the marching droids, though far away, is already terrifyingly loud. If she has to guess, Ventress would estimate that there are nearly seven hundred droids that had arrived to take care of her small coven of one hundred and twenty-three. 

She grits her teeth. To someone like Dooku, funding this number of droids would have been nothing but a tiny dent in his mountain of wealth. Her hands itch again to bury her sabers in his body and to make him suffer. 

But enough about Dooku. First the droids, then Grievous. Dooku is not worth giving attention to when he hasn’t even bothered showing his face here. She looks up, staring at the oncoming droids, and she thinks she sees a hint of several defoliator tanks, their cannons already poised to fire. Her eyes widen. 

Those will be her first target. But not yet.

The signal comes, a single word whispered from the shadows, the timing carefully calculated thanks to years of experience on the battlefield as a general. Above her, Ventress senses more than hears the collective breath of her sisters as they take careful aim, and then they release upon the word of the Fanged God. 

_ Fire.  _

The sky lights up in a hail of plasma arrows.

\--

At the back of a room, deep within the coven, Old Daka reaches deep within herself, drawing on the magick in her blood and in the core of the planet. It calls to her, a siren song of power and beauty, and she opens herself up to it completely, falling deeply into it and allowing herself to be lost in the magick. At her side, she can sense the brilliant power of the Winged Goddess, a pulsing pool of strength, and Daka draws from it. Words rise, unbidden, passing through her mind and flowing from her lips. 

_ Choono slalem denni tay'lori olee-ay.  _

Daka feels it the moment the power within her blooms, snapping out of her core and flowing to her limbs. She opens her eyes, seeing not what is in front of her but rather the magick in the air, invisible to those who are not sisters. 

_ Lucheno vadem klavlane.  _

The magick is thick on Dathomir. In the distance, she can see concentrated pockets of magick - these are the presences of each sister. Around the presence of Ventress, the magick is distinct, diffused and refined into something different. Something darker. 

_ Blenay vedi nalem koreem. Blenay vedi nalem koreem.  _

Daka waves her hands, allowing the magick to flow through her fingertips and into the air. She feels it as her power bursts out of her body, flowing through the wall and into the trees around the coven. She directs it, reaching for the faded pockets of magick where she can sense the presence of the resting sisters - the ones who have long passed on, but who decided to entomb their bodies on the trees so they could possibly serve their coven once more. 

_ Villos susko kono lamal!  _

The power that Daka can sense flowing off the presence of the Winged Goddess adds to her own strength, tugging at the resting sisters. With the magick so potent in the air, Daka can see with her inner eye the shape of the resting sisters within their circular tombs, curled up like infants waiting to be born. She sees also the rotting flesh and the stark white of bone, and she sees how the resting sisters begin to twitch as the magick begins to pass through them. 

_ Vlemon tagoo! _

With a great mental heave, Daka thrusts her power forward, pushing it towards the resting sisters, commanding them to serve their coven one last time. With her inner eye, she sees their presences strengthening, the magick within them adding new edges and sharpening the coldness she senses from them, and she smiles.

_ Rise, dead sisters. _

_ Rise. _

_ Rise! _

\--

The sky above the droid army lights up in a brilliant purple, tearing through their infantry and splashing harmlessly against the hull of the tanks. Within seconds, nearly two dozen droids have already fallen, their bodies pierced by the plasma arrows. 

The droids are unfazed. They’d expected some resistance, anyway. With no trace of panic in his voice, the commander gives an order. “Open fire!” 

Red blaster bolts join the fray, slicing through the air and into the branches of trees. Loud cracks sound as the trees begin to groan, their branches falling under the assault, slamming into the ground with a loud crash that only adds to the rumble of marching metal feet and the constant whine of discharged plasma bolts. 

In the middle of the storm of noise, peeking out of a tank, a droid stares through his macrobinoculars to try to locate targets for his tank. He jerks it around, staring through the branches and trying to see where the plasma arrows are coming from. One of them zips perilously close to his head, and he jumps. “Ahh!”

“B1-9340, do you have a location?” one of the other droid calls, tinny voice straining to be heard over the din. 

“That’s the thing. I can’t see any of them!” he calls back, his macrobinoculars sweeping through the branches of the trees. With his photoreceptors pressed against the macrobinoculars, he doesn’t see the droid that addressed him exploding in a shower of sparks. “I can see where the bolts are coming from, but there’s no one there! They’re coming from thin air!” 

“The defoliator tanks don’t need specific coordinates.” From the sound of B1-9340’s comm, the tactical droid’s monotone sounds out. “Give a vector and fire.” 

“Roger, roger,” B1-9340 replies. If he’d been programmed with the ability, he would have shrugged. “Fire at a thirty-nine degree angle!”

\--

Underneath the noise of battle, the whir of the defoliator tanks goes unnoticed by most as they move into position. What does get noticed is the burst of sound as they fire, the blast slamming into the ground and burning all around the impact area, lighting the forest around the coven with a bright red-gold as flames begin to lick at the trees. 

Farther behind the battle lines, the tactical droid TX-98 observes the scene with a critical eye. The blasts had, as anticipated, lit up the scene, but there is something that does not compute. There is a strange green mist that seems to seep through the air and around the humanoid silhouettes he can see approaching. Running a quick analysis, the tactical droid notes that something does not compute. 

There’s something strange about these silhouettes and the way that they are moving. Their movements are strange and jerky, their shapes too thin and deformed, their speed too fast for a regular Nightsister. TX-98 wonders if they have been enhanced by potions - after all, the information he had downloaded into his processing system had informed him that the Nightsisters practiced magick - but it still doesn’t compute. 

Then the new sound reaches him. 

It pierces the air, an unhinged shriek of unbridled rage as the strange silhouettes rapidly approach. With the advancing wave of silhouettes, he gets a close look and pauses. Servos stall and his processor screeches to a temporary halt as he tries to understand the image he is seeing through his photoreceptors. 

This truly does not compute. Nightsisters should not be surrounded by a green mist that leaks from their eyes. Nightsisters should not be covered in rotting flesh and teeth. Nightsisters should not have the stark white of bone shining through torn and decomposed muscle. Nightsisters should not have jaws that unhinge so widely they display the torn flesh skin of their cheek muscles. Nightsisters shouldn’t-

The only explanation that he can think of is that they are dead. But the dead should not move. It does not compute. 

If TX-98 had been sentient, he would have been frozen in fear. 

As they approach, he catches sight of a blaster bolt ripping through one of the advancing bodies. It pierces through the body’s chest, ripping a hole clean through, yet all the body does is jerk slightly, then continue, running forward at the same speed as before. It opens its mouth again in a high-pitched screech before a shot from a tank blasts the body into pieces, but just as quickly as the body was destroyed, another takes its place. 

“Defoliators 03, 05, and 06.” TX-98 calculates a quick estimate, then transmits the new attack vector through his comms. “Reconfigure your attack to the new vector.” 

The whir of the defoliator tanks readjusting is lost again over the sound of blaster bolts. What is not lost, however, is the sound of the first blast of the defoliator as it strikes the ground, burning the dirt around it and vaporizing huge swaths of the endless horde of the undead. What is also not lost is the sudden groan of the ground being uprooted as something completely unanticipated occurs. 

The branches of one of the trees lining the forest corridor shifts, first slowly, then with a sudden swiftness, throws out its long spindly limbs to wrap around the barrel of one of the defoliator tanks. The tree jerks, throwing the tank off course and into another one, illuminating the droid army with a spectacular explosion of red-gold as the tanks collide, breaking a path through the droid army with a loud screech of metal against metal. 

Then another tree pulls out its roots, moving to lash its limbs around another defoliator tank, and then another, and then another, and then- 

If this keeps up, TX-98 knows that they will lose all of their tanks - not just the defoliator tanks, but also the normal ones, too, and what is more, TX-98 knows that the trees can decimate the infantry forces quickly. 

Processors whir. Servos spin. TX-98 raises his hand to the comm and opens a channel. “Bring in the hyena bombers,” he orders, and closes the channel. 

\--

On the other side of the planet, it takes little time to get rid of the droids. They had anticipated an unprepared village of brutes; while they were known to be warriors, the physical prowess of one with a staff or a blade meant nothing when blaster bolts were involved. But the Nightbrothers had been prepared, and what is more, the droids had not anticipated the arrival of a Sith Lord. 

Maul never hesitates. He rushes through the flanks, his blade a constant whir of crimson as he decimates the droids one by one. Behind him, Savage and the other Nightbrothers take care of the few droids that remain in the wake of Maul’s destructive wave. 

Then a lucky shot gets by, and strikes Savage in the side. 

Maul senses it when it happens. It comes like an explosion of pain in the Force, freezing him for a millisecond before a deep-seated rage explodes from every fiber of his being towards the droids.  _ How dare they- _

It is over in ten seconds. The last of the droids is cut down by his blade and his brothers’ weapons, and Maul leaps backwards in impatience. “Brother!” he shouts. “Savage!”

On the ground, Savage is curled around the wound in his side. It is deep but not fatal - if he is given care, he will live. Hatred swells in Maul once again - it is  _ Kenobi’s  _ fault that Savage had become so weak. He stands, a snarl ripping itself out of his throat as the healers converge on Savage and the other wounded. 

“Brother,” Savage calls out weakly, “Don’t-”

But Maul pays him no heed, just as he pays the bodies of the other dead Nightbrothers no heed. Nothing matters now. Nothing but  _ revenge. _

\--

There are five things that TX-98 does not know as he orders the hyena bombers to begin their attack.

-

One: In random pockets, scattered around the middle of the droid army, they begin to disappear. First one, then another, then another, and then a dozen have disappeared. 

“What’s happening?” B1-2189 demands. “Where-”

And with a scream, his next step disappears into the shadows of the trees above before he’s pulled into the ground without a trace. 

“B1-2189!” Another droid calls, startled, before he, too, feels his foot sinking into the ground. “Wait, no! Not me! No-!”

Around them, dark laughter rings out, coming from the shadows they cast on the ground and those of the trees. It rings and rings and rings, like a constant taunt snarling on the wind, and one of the droids turns his attention to the ground. “Get away!” he shouts, tinny voice strained in terror. He pulls the trigger again and again, shooting at the ground and trees and hitting nothing. “Get- AHH!”

And he disappears. 

_ Stupid droids,  _ laughs the voice from the shadows, menacing and amused.  _ Tell Count Dooku I send him my best wishes. _

-

Two: Though the defoliators illuminated the undead, TX-98 did not see the advancing rancors, hidden in the trees. One of the defoliators had struck true, burning through the rancor’s shell and throwing aside its rider into a tree with a sickening  _ crack. _ What TX-98 does not see now is the scorched body of the dead rancor and the broken body of its rider, visible now that the Nightsister riding it has died, the spell of invisibility over her body dispelled. 

What he also does not see is the line of green magick circling back to hover around the rancor and its dead rider. What he does not see is the way the dead Nightsister’s body shudders, like a puppet slowly being moved by new strings, before the dead eyes blink open, glassy and unfocused and unnaturally green. What he does not see is the sudden, jerky motions of the rancor, and how its eyes - one dead and glassy, the other scorched until there is nothing but an empty socket - snap open, green mist pouring from them. What he does not hear is the screech of the undead Nightsister and the howl of the undead rancor as the sister runs to join the horde, her former mount lumbering behind her in an uneven gait. 

A ways off, in another portion of the forest, Ventress does see this. What is more, she  _ smells _ it too - the odor of burnt flesh is not something new to her, yet now, there’s something about seeing the moving corpse of her dead sister that makes her feel slightly ill. But there’s no time for that. 

She ignites her sabers, the blades made invisible from the potion of invisibility, and they leap through the trees in silence, preparing to flank the droids from all sides.

-

Three: While TX-98 does know that there are two squadrons of specialized commando droids dispatched to take care of Tano and Kenobi specifically, he doesn’t realize how one of the squadrons is already disabled. 

It happened like this: 

While the infantry began marching along the first corridor, the squadron targeting Kenobi had flanked to the left while the one assigned to eliminate Tano had flanked to the right, taking a wide berth in the branches of the trees to avoid detection until it was too late. The squadron on the left had lept through the trees soundlessly, moving to avoid the rancors they could see moving, before their scanners had given them a target.

_ There, on the trees: a human form.  _

They’d crept forward, ready to draw the electrostaffs strapped to their back (for embedded deep in their program was the knowledge of the uselessness of blaster bolts against Jedi), before leaping as one towards the human form. 

But it was gone. 

They’d been unfazed. The leader of the squadron had quickly analyzed the situation and sent an electronic signal to its mates to search the area. The damned red fog on Dathomir did them no favours, and strangely enough, there was a new blue-green tint to the air-

Then the leader of the squadron had frozen, as if held in place by an invisible grip, and it had crumpled into itself like a ball of paper in a fist. Then, before the rest of the squadron could react, they too folded into themselves, crushed by a telekinetic grip strong enough to pulverise metal. 

The blue-green mist had coalesced briefly, and if anyone had been around, they would have heard a trace of an amused chuckle before it vanished. 

-

Four: Leaping through the trees and running around the massive roots, TX-98 cannot see a portion of the advancing Nightsister warriors and archers, cloaked in the potion of invisibility. They run around, flanking the droid army, before decimating it from the sides, moving together like an invisible blade cutting deeply into the army. 

Though they are invisible, they are not invincible. In the midst of cutting their way through the droid army, some Nightsisters fall, becoming visible as the potion of invisibility wears off in death. To the droids, it is as if dead Nightsisters are suddenly appearing in their midst. 

Then, with a great shudder, the newly-appeared bodies rise and howl, and they join the hordes of the undead, their wounds still fresh with the smell of burnt flesh that has already begun to rot. 

-

Five: Since TX-98 cannot see through the potion of invisibility or into the Force, he does not see how many Nightsisters are struck by lucky blaster bolts that fly through the trees. There are enough battle droids shooting to strike the Nightsisters by chance. Some sisters are struck in the head or the chest. These ones lurch, falling to the ground, still in death, before the green mist circles back and draws them to join their undead sisters. 

Yet, there are other lucky shots too; glancing blows to the side or the neck, or shots which pierce through arms and legs or scorch off ears. These ones are deadly in time; but they are not immediately fatal. It is here that TX-98 cannot see how every time a sister is struck with a non-lethal blow, she gasps, before a white-gold blur in the Force strikes the sister and heals her wounds. This happens again and again and again; had the white-gold healer not been there, many of the sisters would have fallen long ago. 

It is thanks to this blur of white-gold that the Nightsisters are still able to hold their ground. There are simply too many tanks, too many droids, too many blaster bolts for them to have held their ground without extra aid. 

But they have gods on their side. 

-

All these things happen at once. All these things happen as TX-98 orders the attack of the Hyena bombers on the trees. 

(But, like all things standing under a light source, TX-98 casts a shadow.)

\--

_ Did you hear that, Master? _

_ Yes. I did. I’ll take care of the tactical droid and the others on the ground. _

_ Leaving all the flying to me, huh? _

_ Ha, ha. Very funny. Be careful, Anakin. _

_ Who, me? I’m always careful.  _

Through the Force, a sudden swell of indignant exasperation makes itself known.  _ Of course you are. Now go on. _

_ Alright, alright.  _

\--

From behind one of the large tanks, the shadows seem to swell as a darkened form emerges from the ground, then shoots upwards, moving too quickly for even electronic eyes to see. One of the droids has the presence of mind to send a quick report to General Grievous, reporting of a large, bat-like creature with wings that had flown to intercept the bombers. Maybe it was a gargoyle?

Another droid reports heavier resistance than anticipated. Grievous reports this to Dooku, yet they both have little concern in their voices when they discuss this. 

“These witches will exhaust their sorcery before half of the battle is over,” Dooku says dismissively. “No matter how powerful they are, even Mother Talzin cannot withstand the might of the droid army.”

Grievous laughs, the sound gritty and dark, and he thinks of the hundreds of droids still not yet deployed. He and Dooku had taken no chances. 

He cuts the connection, and watches the tactical display as the hyena bombers approach to strike the Nightsisters from above. 

But then, they begin to fall. 

\--

Above the battle, the sky comes alight with crimson lightning. 

First there are seven hyena bombers, all flying in formation. 

Then there are six, then five, then four, then-

And they fall, crashing harmlessly into the forest below as a dark demon flies above them. 

Then the demon, too, falls, diving back into the shadows and disappearing without a trace. 

\--

At the same moment, the tank within which the tactical droid stands fills suddenly with a blue-green mist. The fog coalesces, taking a vaguely human shape that seems to give the semblance of a salute. 

“Give Count Dooku my regards,” the voice taunts, and the mist disperses, spreading out to encompass the entire tank. Before TV-98 can even reach for his comm, the entire tank crumples like paper in a deafening screech of metal, crushing him from within. The hunk of scrap metal that used to be a tank then throws itself aside, crashing through hordes of droids before coming to a halt near a large tree. 

The blue-green mist hangs in the air for but a moment, then vanishes. 

\--

Deep within the coven, a sudden spike of danger alerts Mother Talzin, forcing her to end the spell animating the trees. A squadron of commando droids had snuck through their defenses, and began blasting their way through the wall of stone now, their blasts shaking the walls. 

Talzin turns, staring at the still forms of Old Daka and the Winged Goddess. Both of them cannot fight these droids - the Winged Goddess’ consciousness is occupied elsewhere as she heals the sisters on the field of battle while Old Daka reanimates the dead. 

“Sisters,” Talzin orders the rest of the mages surrounding her. “Behind me. Lend me your strength.” 

She takes a deep breath, focusing on her senses. Animating the trees had taken much of her power; though she had been able to tear away at a significant portion of the droid army, they still marched on, too numerous for the Nightsisters to claim a swift victory. She focuses now on the feeling of her breath filling her lungs, of the softness of the fabric of her robes and the solid rock beneath her feet. She focuses on the magick of the sisters around her and of the Light of the Winged Goddess, pulling from all these things to ground herself and give her strength. 

As the commando droids blast through the wall, Talzin summons the magick within herself and pushes it outwards. It manifests itself in two ways, forming a protective barrier around her body that absorbs the shots, and redirects it out of her hands in the form of green lightning. One droid falls, then another, then another - but there are too many of them. Some of them leap around her blasts, guns poised to shoot at Daka and at the Winged Goddess, and Talzin throws out an arm. Several more droids fall - but one fires its shot towards Old Daka, and Talzin screams. “No!”

Then the blast halts, impossibly suspended in the air, before a blue-green mist emerges from beyond the wall and surrounds the room. The blast turns, screaming back the way it came, and pierces the body of the droid. Three more droids crumple in on themselves, folding inwards with deafening crunches of metal, and Talzin immediately throws her hand forward as her green lightning incinerates the remainder of the droids. 

She falls to her knees briefly, exhausted from the effort. “Thank you, Great One,” she calls out, and she watches as the blue-green mist swirls, forming the semblance of the Parent’s human form. 

“I do believe that the coven is making good progress cutting through the droid army,” he tells her. “I can also sense that Grievous has landed. I suspect that Ventress will engage him in combat soon.” 

Talzin’s face darkens. “Dooku’s minion will not stop in his mission to eradicate our clan,” she tells him warningly. “No matter what he promises, he will never keep his word.”

The Parent’s form dips his head in acknowledgment. “I understand. I’ll keep watch.” 

“Thank you,” she says, and she watches as he disappears once again into thin air. 

\--

(Warning for vivid descriptions of body horror and gore in this section.)

It takes little time for the defoliators to be destroyed. It takes even less time for Ventress, Karis, and Naa’leth to take control of one of the tanks, using it to carve a path of destruction to the heart of the droid army, where she  _ knows _ Grievous awaits. 

The Nightsisters move forward - an army three hundred strong, even with the hordes of the undead - and Ventress takes a chance. She reaches deep within herself, focusing on her Force presence and the magick that permeates it, and she expels the magick of the potion of invisibility. 

The droids don’t notice. She is but one sister out of many; and among the advancing undead and the rancors which crush the droids from behind her, she is beneath their notice. 

But they do notice her as she begins to run atop their heads, sprinting for the ship she can see close-by in the distance. She leans into the Force for a burst of speed, and runs so quickly it is as if she is flying above the heads of the droids, too fast for blaster bolts to catch. Her appearance does another thing, too - it distracts the droids, making them turn their heads, allowing her sisters to catch the droids by surprise. 

Then she lands on the ground before the ship, and sees her goal. She holds up a hand, stalling her advancing sisters, just as Grievous holds out a hand to stop his Magnaguards from attacking. 

“Surprised?” she taunts him. In the corner of her eye, she sees a flash of white-gold to one corner and a glimpse of something blue-green elsewhere, and she is sure that Grievous’ shadow is flickering despite the fact that he isn’t  _ moving _ that way. 

“Hardly.” Grievous’ voice holds all the malice she remembers. Oh, she is going to  _ enjoy _ killing him. “You’re the one I was sent here for.”

A smile curls her lips, first twisting up one corner, then the other. She knows exactly how to appeal to him. “Then fight me alone. Prove you’re the greater warrior.” She gestures. “If I win, your army leaves. If you win, the Nightsisters will surrender to you.”

“I’ve always been greater than you.” Grievous laughs, the sound garbled and menacing. Ventress ignites her sabers. Here, at the heart of her power with magick and the Force singing in her blood, she knows she will win. 

He rushes forward, four lightsabers spinning in a mechanical whir, and she meets him head-on. 

Ventress knows - intimately - why so many Jedi have fallen to Grievous’ blades. His mechanical enhancements have made him faster than any living being with the ability of foresight, and even then, it is difficult to keep him at bay. It is hard enough to fight someone with two lightsabers - to fight a skilled warrior like him with four is even harder. He comes at her in a blur of blue and green, sabers moving too quickly to be tracked with the naked eye, and she leans into the Force as she meets him blade by blade. 

It is as if she is being pummeled by all sides. Four sabers come at her at once, all impossibly fast and in different directions, but she is faster. Dathomir is her home - she can feel the singing in her blood and the power at her fingertips - and she uses it, wielding her blades with years of experience. Muscle memory takes over, bringing her blades around and over and around again, blocking many furious strokes which would have killed her many times over.

And she recognizes his fighting style. Of course she does. Dooku had trained Grievous - but he had trained her too. 

Her arms shake under the weight of Grievous’ blows. She grits her teeth, throwing one arm high and another low to block three of his sabers in one fell swoop, but a fourth one strikes out at her face, forcing her to leap back to avoid his blow. Immediately, she throws herself forward once again, attacking with a ferocity that prevents him from going on the defensive. She will  _ not _ lose. Her pride demands victory. 

Her breaths come hard and fast as the duel goes on. Her muscles burn with the familiar exertion of battle; her legs are beginning to tire already. She screams, leaning into the Force to give her a burst of speed, and she twists her sabers just  _ so- _

She feels it when her blade shears through one of Grievous’ arms, cutting through metal and a saber in a shower of sparks. He shouts in pain, falling to the ground, and she raises her sabers. “It’s over,” she snarls. 

But Grievous only laughs. “Kill her!” he calls out to his droids, and they begin to fire into her and her sisters, catching them unprepared. Before Ventress can bring her sabers down on Grievous, she’s forced on the defensive as a dozen B2 Super Battle Droids turn their guns on her, pushing her back. Behind her, in the Force, she feels a sudden surge of presences that blink out, sharpen, and then are twisted as her sisters are shot down and reanimated into the army of the undead. 

“Coward!” she screams at Grievous, furious, and still he laughs at her. “You backstabbing, filthy-”

Then it happens. 

The ship from which Grievous came begins to crumple in on itself in a loud screech of cold metal being forced inwards. He barely makes it off the ramp before it, too, folds inwards, taking two of the magnaguards and the rest of the droids inside that ship with it. At the same time, to the side of the battlefield, the droids shooting at Ventress pause in confusion before the ground swallows them whole, their shadows elongating and widening to consume them. 

Grievous whirls on her, three sabers ignited and poised to attack. “Enough of this!” he shouts. “After you die, I will deal with the Jedi slime myself-”

The Force surges, a riotous whirl of righteous anger, and Ventress throws herself backwards as a massive blur of white-gold appears before her vision. What was once a convor in the Force has become a griffin, resplendent in its beauty and terrifying to behold, and it opens its mouth to deliver a sentence, its voice a growl that sends shivers down Ventress’ spine while also ringing like bells across the forest. Around them, droids and Nightsisters alike turn in surprise to stare as the projected form the Winged Goddess manifests itself into the corporeal world. 

“General Grievous,” the Goddess - and finally, Ventress truly sees the  _ Goddess _ and not just the pesky Togruta padawan - intones, “Your crimes against the galaxy are at an end.” 

Two forms coalesce in front of the goddess - the Fanged God, emerging from Ventress’ own shadow like a demon rising from the depths of the planet, and the Parent, the blue-green mist coming together to form a humanoid shape. In front of her, Grievous’ eyes widen in recognition. 

“General Kenobi,” he says, surprise overriding fear. “And- Anakin Skywalker.” 

“General Grievous,” taunts Skywalker - only this isn’t Skywalker but the Fanged God - his mouth splitting open his face from ear to ear and half his body collapsed unnaturally into shadow. “You’re shorter than I expected.” 

The Force around Grievous darkens in anger, but before he can do anything more, Kenobi reaches out, gesturing with his hands, and the lightsabers held in Grievous’ grip wink out. 

Ventress gapes. She can’t help it. Her lips open in surprise, incredulousness leaking from her shields, and fear stutters across her mind.  _ If they can do that- _

“In the name of the Galactic Republic,” Kenobi says, voice neutral, “you are under arrest, General Grievous.”

One of Grievous’ feet sinks into the ground up to his knee, pulled into the shadows, while the other leg is ripped apart with a sharp gesture from the Parent. Sparks fly as metal is ripped apart and crumbled to dust. 

Behind Ventress, a new sound intrudes - the sound of lightning. She turns, staring, as Mother Talzin appears from the forest, arms spread. Green bolts crackle from her fingertips, eliminating what is left of the droid army and preventing any interference. It takes little time - any blaster bolts shot her way from the droids are absorbed into the green shield around her body - and soon, there are no more droids left.

Except Grievous. 

For the first time in her life, Ventress can sense unbridled  _ terror _ pouring from Grievous in waves. But there is one thing she knows. 

When a cornered animal is desperate, it is at its most dangerous. 

She senses it a quarter of a millisecond before it happens. Moving too quickly for the eye to see, and so quickly that by the time Ventress reacts, she’s  _ sure _ it’s too late, Grievous reaches for three other spare sabers at his belt and hurls them at the gods. 

Or- he tries. One saber passes harmlessly through the Parent, the blue-green mist dissolving and reforming into a frowning human, but the other two never make it out of his hands. Acting on pure instinct, the Winged Goddess sends a surge of  _ healing _ towards Grievous, and it does the unthinkable. 

**He was Kaleesh before he’d removed most of his body to implant cybernetics. But now, with the surge of healing coming from a  _ goddess,  _ he becomes a full Kaleesh once more as he howls in agony. Skin and muscle regenerate, growing under and around the wiring and metal plates, and he screams as the crunch of bone being formed around a metal skeleton makes itself known. Around the white metal coverings of his body, skin begins to appear, crawling over the plates, and blood begins to pour to the ground as the newly deformed Kaleesh body of General Grievous regenerates around his metal skeleton.**

Force, Ventress had  _ never _ heard anyone scream like that, and she’d had her fair share of time involved in torturing prisoners. She imagines hearing Dooku screaming like this, and vindication rushes through her like a flame. 

She thinks and hears all this as she is in the motion of leaping high above the Goddess, having anticipated the flying lightsaber blades that had never been thrown. Then gravity wins out, and Ventress comes thundering towards the ground, bringing her blades down with a shout of victory. Her first blade slices through his chest from shoulder to neck; the second cuts his head in half, and then it’s over. 

_ Force. _

_ It’s over. _

She stares at the bloody caricature of a Kaleesh body at her feet, then at the gods. Kenobi’s face is a picture of mild shock; beside him, Skywalker’s eyebrows are raised, and the griffin’s expression is impossible to discern. 

“He would have revealed your identities,” she manages to say. Her mind is blank. She thought she’d feel happy with the death of Grievous, but she’s not so sure she wanted it to end like this. She feels empty. Her lightsabers feel too warm in her hands, her breath is coming too quickly, and her muscles are burning. 

Behind her, she senses movement. She turns. One by one, her sisters drop to their knees, bowing before the display of power demonstrated by the gods. Even Mother Talzin bows her head in acknowledgement of power. 

Ventress can’t bring herself to bow. 

The griffin advances, its breath hot on Ventress’ face, then it croons, sending a pulse of forgiveness through the Force. It shimmers, disappearing from the corporeal world and shrinking in size to once again become a convor that Ventress can only see in the Force, and it disappears, flying with impossible speed back towards the coven. 

Skywalker’s eyes seem to search her. Gold rimmed in crimson stares into pale blue, and for the first time, Ventress thinks of how Skywalker’s eyes are the same colour as Count Dooku when he had delved deeply into the Dark Side. 

Then their eyes are drawn to the sound of Kenobi’s voice. 

“You may rise,” he calls to the kneeling Nightsisters, and they move unsteadily to their feet as the adrenaline of battle wears off. Already, the stench of burnt and rotting flesh has begun to intensify as the undead stand, still animated yet unmoving. “You have all fought valiantly today. You have won, but at a cost - let us take the next few days to recover.” 

As if Old Daka were listening to Kenobi’s words (and perhaps she was), the undead suddenly collapse, falling bonelessly to the ground as the animation spell ends. The sound of a hundred bodies hitting the ground is horrifying - like a crunch and thud, magnified tenfold - and Ventress thinks she wants to be sick as she stares at all the bodies of her sisters, some of them long decayed and rotten, some of them with still-fresh blaster bolts in their heads. 

For a moment, no one moves as they stare at the bodies. 

Then Talzin waves her hand, levitating one of the bodies to bring to the coven, and the remaining sisters begin to bustle, moving to help one another. A sudden weakness overwhelms Ventress, and she hunches forward, hooking her sabers to her belt and putting her hands on her knees to catch her own breath. 

“Are you quite alright, my dear?” Kenobi asks her, and despite her exhaustion, Ventress can’t help but bark out a laugh. Even as a god, Kenobi flirts with every living thing he sees. 

“I will be,” she tells him, drawing on the Force for strength. The presence of Skywalker - once an uncertain Light, now a burning Dark - invigorates her, filling her with the energy of the Dark Side she has learned to harness over the years. She swallows her pride as she looks at the bloodstained corpse of General Grievous. “Thank you,” she tells them. 

“Of course,” Skywalker says easily, but there’s an undercurrent of malice in his voice. 

_ “Anakin,”  _ Kenobi admonishes. “Come, now. Let’s help the others with the clean-up.” 

Ventress sighs, and with great effort, brings herself to join her sisters. She’ll get a promise out of Skywalker and Kenobi to bring vengeance to Dooku. 

She knows she will. She vows it. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endnotes: And so ends the Battle of Dathomir.
> 
> I don’t know when the next update will be up. I’ve seen a couple of comments that note that this fic is getting kinda eh, and I do think quality has been suffering since school has started and I’ve lost momentum. In any case, thank you all so much for sticking with this so far and MTFBWY.
> 
> Edit, Nov 1: Thank you all for the wonderful comments ;-; I promise you that one day, this fic will reach a conclusion.


	19. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the Now, Fives continues the rescue efforts.
> 
> In the past, following their departure from Dathomir, Anakin, Obi-Wan, and Ahsoka are forced to contend with the harsh reality of being forced back into mortal bodies. 
> 
> CW: Panic Attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! Thank you so much for all your comments - it's honestly gotten me through all these times. I have read all of them and even if I haven't replied to them, please know that I do see them. 
> 
> First things first:  
> To those of you that have not yet seen the updated notes, I would like to apologize for the inclusion of Barriss in this story as the Temple Bomber. I first started writing fanfic and tried to stay as close to canon as I possibly could for this AU and I wrote that in before I was aware of the Islamophobic connotations of this inclusion - ignorance is not an excuse, however, and I will do better in the future. For those of you that are unaware of how this is Islamophobic, here are some links for your reference:
> 
> [ How it is Islamophobic, explained by a Muslim Woman](https://royalhandmaidens.tumblr.com/post/630172351071502336/lets-have-a-conversation-about-barriss-offee-i)
> 
> [How Barriss is Muslim-Coded, and why it is questionable that SHE of all people was the Temple Bomber](https://diversity-instarwars.tumblr.com/post/167947723220/hmm-another-disturbing-trend-ive-noticed-is)
> 
> For my fellow fanfic writers who have potentially included this in your fics and did not know of this, please take a look and be aware of this when writing, and acknowledge it if you have included it in a fic you've published. If anybody else sees something in my fic that you think I should be aware of, PLEASE let me know. 
> 
> Other things:
> 
> Fanart!! There has been some damn amazing fanart that has been coming out during the brief hiatus, and they can all be found on my profile. Here's some of them. If you can, PLEASE go to the links and leave them a like and comment. Their art is phenomenal.  
> [Eldritch!Trio](https://www.instagram.com/p/CIO8u8uJxjS/?igshid=63015x3eihzw) by gingerbeer  
> [Eldritch!Trio](https://venator-signum.tumblr.com/post/636010437981372416/i-recently-finished-reading-whats-up) by venator-signum  
> [Son!Anakin](https://revenge-of-the-shit.tumblr.com/post/635157852932194304/revenge-of-the-shit-mid-nighttiger-anakin) by mid-nighttiger  
> [Son!Anakin](https://revenge-of-the-shit.tumblr.com/post/636717557179678722/man-its-been-forever-since-ive-even-attempted-to) by InkedMyths.  
> And some stuff by me:  
> [Concept art](https://revenge-of-the-shit.tumblr.com/post/637603591254835200/from-disconnected-conduit-wew-what-a-damn) by me  
> [Umbara](https://revenge-of-the-shit.tumblr.com/post/636920246685646848/revenge-of-the-shit-he-finds-all-thoughts) by me  
> If you have fanart, comment it on this fic - that way I'll see it for sure!
> 
> And finally: MASSIVE thanks to daisybaritone for being an amazing beta. Seriously. I could not have done this without you.

**Now.**

The first time Fives ran into a brother that was being controlled by the karking mind-control chip, he was with Echo, and they’d been confronted with five of the Coruscant Guard. 

“CT-5555 and CT-1409,” one of the Coruscant Guard - Commander Thire? - had called out, and then he’d ordered them to join with the squadrons making their way to the landing pads to destroy them at all costs.

Fives hadn’t been able to move for the first second. Only one thought had run through his mind.

_ It’s happening.  _

_ It’s kriffing happening.  _

He’d only come to after he’d heard the sound of Echo’s blasters discharging stun bolts into the unsuspecting Coruscant Guard, dropping all five of them where they stood. 

“Come on,” Echo had said, and he’d started relieving them of their weapons and destroying their comms, dragging the unconscious Coruscant Guard to the side for their own safety. “We need to move, now!”

That was hours ago. Since then, they’d lost track of how many of their brothers in the Coruscant Guard they’d stunned and left behind. 

And now-

Now there’s a tightness in Fives’ chest that wasn’t there before. He hadn’t been injured - he and Echo had been lucky so far (and he  _ knows  _ that it’s luck) - but the tightness comes from seeing the parts of bodies under the rubble and the red-gold flames that paint the surface of Coruscant. Under his helmet, the stink of sweat mingles with the coolness of tears, and Fives tries desperately not to think of how it’s entirely possible that at least one of his brothers in the Coruscant Guard that  _ he’d  _ stunned in an attempt to prevent further deaths had died, crushed underneath the rubble caused by the many ships and vehicles that had fallen out of the sky. 

Coruscant isn’t his home, not really. His home is Kamino. But Coruscant is his Generals’ and his Commander’s home, and if they could defend his home with all their might, he sure as hell could give them the same courtesy. 

In the distance, many blocks away, long, spidery fingers of red and blue clash as General Skywalker and General Kenobi battle with the Chancellor. Fives and Echo - along with the rest of the 501st - had gotten the instructions from Rex not long after they’d run into the mind-controlled Coruscant Guard. “It’s the  _ Chancellor,”  _ Rex had spat through the comm. “He’s the one behind the chips, and he’s a karking Sith. I’m ordering everyone to stay clear of the Senate block. We need to spread out for damage mitigation, now!”

It’s strange. There’s a part of Fives that thinks this all looks like a scene from a holodrama. He’d been a soldier for so long, but this - the red-gold flames soaring from the Senate Dome, the sharp blue lightning breaking through the windows, and the dark shape of his General (who looks far too much like a dark angel, in Fives’ opinion) - looks too unreal even for  _ him.  _

In the corner of his eyes, there’s movement, and Fives whips around with Echo, blasters at the ready. But they’re lucky - it’s just Commander Tano, Commander Cody, and-

“What in the  _ universe  _ happened to you?” Fives can’t help but exclaim as he takes in the half-melted state of Rex’s armor. The only reason he’s not running forward to check on his brother is because Commander Tano is  _ right there  _ \- which means that she’d likely healed Rex and fixed all that was wrong. 

“Eh…” Even under the helmet, Fives can hear the grimace in Rex’s voice. “I got too close to the Senate dome.”

“And nearly  _ died,”  _ Cody adds, voice still scathing with worry. He jerks his head in Rex’s direction. “He’s only alive because Commander Tano made it in time.”

“Only thanks to General Kenobi,” Commander Tano says, voice amused. Though it isn’t the first time he’d seen her like this Fives can’t help but marvel at how the sound of her voice has changed; if he listens really hard, he thinks it sounds almost like the trilling of a convor or the cry of a griffin.

Echo brings Fives’ thoughts back to attention. “Do you need our assistance with anything, Commander?” he asks, and the faint smile on Commander Tano’s face vanishes so quickly it might as well have never been there. 

“I do.” She turns, pointing to what used to be an apartment building not too far off. “There’s a number of survivors under the rubble there. They’re the closest ones I could sense.”

Left unsaid is the fact that there used to be hundreds of residents milling about and living in this area. Fives’s stomach lurches in horror, and he tampers it down. Later. He can be sick later. 

“How far down are they?” he asks. The rubble looks far too heavy to lift, even for a Jedi, but he’d seen Commander Tano do far more impossible things at the second mission to Christophsis. 

“Far enough that it would’ve taken a week to dig them out normally,” she tells him, and he shudders. “Watch my back.”

“Yes, ma’am!” he responds, the affirmation echoed by the rest of his brothers. They form a perimeter, back turned, and even under the visor of his helmet, Fives can see the brightness of a white-gold glow as his Commander falls deeply into the Force, pulling at a power that most Jedi couldn’t even hope to imagine. 

( _ Look at me,  _ the white-gold glow seems to whisper, cooing at him. 

_ No,  _ he tells himself, deliberately bringing to memory how Commander Tano had blinded and stunned hundreds during the second mission to Christophsis.) 

The sound of hundreds of thousands of tons being lifted is deafening. Even after years of hearing explosions, there’s nothing that can compare to this sound, not really. What’s worse, however, is the fact that Fives knows that this sound of moving rubble is being heard all throughout the surface of Coruscant right at this moment as hundreds of rescue teams try desperately to reach as many survivors as they can. 

He’s not even angry. He’s just numb. There’s no more energy for fear, for anger, for righteous fury - after seeing so much  _ war,  _ he just barely has the energy to keep fighting for the Republic. For his brothers. For his Jedi. 

Despite his knowledge of what’s going on behind him, Fives can’t help but flinch sharply when Commander Tano sets down the rubble, kicking up a ring of dust and making his ears ring with the crash of metal and duracrete. From behind him, the white-gold glow dims, and he turns around, blinking at the sudden hole that has appeared from underneath the rubble. 

“There!” Beside him, Cody points sharply, and Fives follows his line of sight, zooming in with the infrared scopes in his helmet, and his knees feel suddenly weak in cold comfort when he sees around thirty survivors, huddled together under a table in a half-collapsed room. 

They’d been lucky. He tries really, really hard not to think about how there are dozens more in this building alone that had been unlucky. 

There’s a new creaking noise as Commander Tano waves her hands, forming a clear path downwards for them to retrieve the survivors. She turns. “Rex, can you call for support?”

“Right on, Commander,” Rex tells her, and he hits the comm. “This is Captain Rex, requesting support 5 klicks east and 33 degrees south of the Senate Dome.”

There’s no response. In the silence following the wake of so much rubble movement, Fives becomes suddenly aware of two things: that much of the blasterfire he’s heard in the distance has ceased, and that Rex’s comm is giving off nothing but static. 

“Do you hear that?” he asks. 

“The static?” Echo replies, worried. “That’s not-”

Commander Tano inhales sharply, cutting off any replies, and Fives and his brothers tense, hands on their blasters. Rex’s voice is coarse. “What is it, Commander?” 

In that moment, Fives can’t help but think that despite all that’s been happening - despite all that she’s done - Commander Tano still looks like a  _ kid.  _ Lightsabers and new powers aside, she still looks so small, damnit - and for the first time today, a sliver of carefully-controlled fear breaks free, making Fives shiver as he takes in how vulnerable she looks. 

Then the moment passes, and her gaze hardens. “Take care of them,” she says, jerking her head towards the survivors, and Fives tries to suppress another shiver at the sound of her voice - the sound of the cry of a large animal and the lament of a small convor. “I need to go.”

And she pushes past them, running at a speed that’s nearly too fast to follow, and then she’s gone, leaving behind the faintest impression of the large wings of a griffin. 

Fives blinks, the image seared into his eyes, before he shakes his head. “Come on,” he says, and his brothers shake their heads too to clear the image before they carefully begin picking their way down to help the survivors.

(In the distance, behind his back at the Senate dome, Fives misses a sight that looks too much like a painting - the sight of a dark angel, falling and weakened, gargoyle wings limp as Anakin Skywalker plummets through the sky.)

\--

**Then.**

There are so many bodies. 

With the spell of resurrection ended, there are hundreds of bodies strewn over the ground of Dathomir. Ancient bodies mingle with new ones, all of them limp, many riddled with still-hot blasterfire wounds. The stench of death permeates the air, thick and putrid and suffocating, and the forest feels deathly silent without the screech of metal and the howls of the raging dead. 

It’s horrible.

_ (It’s wonderful. It’s cold, it’s dark, it’s suffocating - and it’s so, so energizing.) _

The Nightsisters set to work immediately, completely undaunted by the smell of rotting flesh or the feel of old bones under their fingers as they begin carrying bodies to the coven entrance. Sorrow filters through the Force, sharp and cold, yet it is laced with a quiet acceptance. From what Anakin knows, it’s within Nightsister culture to view death as a second, long sleep; even in death, the sisters stay together, held close to the coven should they need to rise to serve their coven again. 

_ (Like they just had.) _

It’s ridiculously intoxicating - the fear, the death, the  _ darkness _ that rolls around the area. Without thinking, Anakin’s hand sparks, the crimson lightning rolling across his flesh hand, and he closes his fist to push it down. 

A presence, green and sharp and  _ strange _ , intrudes on his senses, and he snaps his head up to see Mother Talzin staring upon Grievous’ corpse with a dispassionate gaze. 

“A fitting end,” she says coldly.

Anakin can’t help but agree. Vindication rips through his chest like a sharp blade, and despite himself, he smiles, relishing Grievous’ fate.

He catches his own reflection in one of the few metal plates that still peeks through flesh. His face is gashed open by a smile that’s all teeth and venom and malice, and it looks so  _ wrongwrongwrong- _

_ (But most of him doesn’t mind.) _

A noise of annoyance draws his attention. Beside him, Obi-Wan’s face - or, what’s visible of it - is buried in half-solid hands as he contemplates a new problem. “How in the  _ galaxy _ are we supposed to explain this to the Council?”

_ Kriff the Council,  _ Anakin wants to say, but Obi-Wan is right. Because it had been a surge of healing that had done this, Grievous’s corpse positively  _ reeks _ of the Light side. There’s no plausible explanation for this. None of the Nightsisters wield the Light, and none of the droids are Force sensitive.

Before Anakin can think any more of it, Talzin steps forward. “If I may, Great Ones?” she asks, and out of curiosity, Anakin gestures his approval. 

“Go ahead,” he says, and though it’s been a few days, part of him still marvels at how  _ wrong _ his voice sounds, like the hiss of a serpent and a roar of a krayt all at once. 

Talzin raises her hands, drawing on the Force, and Anakin watches as magick begins to coalesce around her palms. With a sound like a wordless exhalation of power, she thrusts her hands forward, enveloping Grievous in green mist. Her fingers dance through the air; they flicker out and curl, rising and falling as she manipulates the energy of Dathomir to do her bidding. Discarded droid parts rattle, flying around the corpse as Talzin weaves a coffin that’s made of earth and metal and magick. 

Then she’s done, and all that’s left is a box surrounding Grievous’ body, with a small green window showing the remains of his face. 

“Your Council will not sense anything other than my magick,” she explains. “It should provide you with an adequate story to tell the Jedi and the Republic.”

Obi-Wan hums. For a moment, the Force swells as he lifts the lid of the coffin, extending his senses to Grievous’ remains. Blue-green mist swirls around the box before retreating just as quickly as it had come, but it’s enough - Anakin had sensed it too. Talzin’s spell - whatever it was - had masked what Ahsoka had done to Grievous. In the Force, Grievous’ corpse now reeks of the sharp green magick of the Nightsisters.

It’s a testament to the true power of Mother Talzin. 

_ Such power,  _ Anakin muses. She’d be a considerable ally if she ever really joined the side of the Republic - and she’d also be a formidable enemy if she ever joined with the Sith.

_ If. _

He looks over her shoulder, sensing the devastation wrought upon the Nightsisters by Count Dooku and the sharp sorrow that cuts through Talzin like a blade, and he knows that the chances of her allying herself with the Sith are incredibly minimal. For a mother to align herself with the side that killed her daughters is unthinkable.

Obi-Wan’s voice cuts into his thoughts. “Thank you, Mother. And, if I may - I recall that you had something which would help us in our fight against Dooku.”

Talzin’s eyes come alight, glinting with a cruel pleasure at the new thought. “Indeed I do, Master Jedi.” She gestures. “Come. After the sisters have finished and they have rested, I shall prepare a potion that will aid you.”

\--

The cleanup is long. Though the Nightsisters had been saved from a total massacre, they had still lost nearly a third of their number during the battle.

The embalming process takes time, made longer by the lessened number of living sisters. Making the process longer still is the presence of the other bodies - some centuries old - which require even more care to re-embalm. 

It doesn’t take Ventress long to resort to using the Force to lift the bodies of her sisters. She’d learned the hard way that some of the bodies were old enough to make the rotten flesh crumble under her fingers. She hadn’t felt the urge to hurl - she’d been desensitized to the stench and feel of death long ago - but it had still made her feel sick. 

Hours later, as she finishes performing the last rites on the last body, she turns to see the gods in the distance, conversing with Mother Talzin.

_ Force.  _ She’ll never get used to this. The Jedi were insufferable before this; for them to become  _ gods _ was something else entirely. 

It’s incredibly unnerving. Though they’re far in the distance, the way they hold themselves is too strange - too  _ unnatural, _ even for her. There’s too many things to pinpoint that make them look  _ wrong _ , but she’s certain she can name some of them: it’s the way Skywalker’s mouth splits open his face like a ragged gash. It’s the way Kenobi’s limbs dissolve to reveal muscle and bone underneath. It’s the way Tano’s very  _ being _ seems to glow as if she has a star under her skin.

As Ventress watches, Skywalker pulls out his lightsaber, and ignites it, illuminating the area in its bright blue.

Only it isn’t really blue, is it? In the Force, flickering on the edges of reality, she’s certain that Skywalker’s lightsaber is a sharp crimson.

_ Interesting.  _

She really shouldn’t-

But curiosity overwhelms her, and she stretches out with her senses to probe the crystal. 

Almost instantly, Skywalker’s eyes flicker to her, and though they’re far away, she swears she can feel the golden colour burning holes into her skull. A whisper comes from nowhere and everywhere, from the shadows at her feet and in the recesses of her mind.  _ Mind your own business, Ventress, _ it says, and she withdraws instinctively. 

But it’s enough to give her the answer she’d been looking for. 

Skywalker’s kyber crystal is  _ bleeding. _

It’s strange. She’d never before seen a kyber crystal that had bled only in the Force while looking like a clean crystal in reality, but then again, she’d never seen a thrice-damned  _ Force god _ either. She’d long known that she still has much to learn - but it’s still an odd surprise. 

There’s a sharp surge in the Force as Mother Talzin draws on her magick. Sharp green pierces through Ventress’ senses, making her blood and bones sing with recognition of the ancient power, before the crimson of Skywalker’s saber flickers in the Force and turns back into a bright blue. 

_ Ah. _

Ventress may not know everything about magick and the Force, but she knows enough to understand that Mother Talzin’s specialization is  _ not  _ in healing bleeding crystals. She’s sure that if she were to extend her senses - and to focus strongly - she’d be able to sense a murmur of Mother Talzin’s illusion magick over Skywalker’s crystal.

She’s so focused on the weaving of the illusion spell that Kenobi’s voice startles her when it hisses into her ears.

_ Come join us, my dear,  _ he murmurs, the sound like the passing wind, and she jumps before narrowing her eyes in annoyance. In a burst of Force-speed, she makes it to their side. 

“What do you want?” she asks. She’s aware that her tone is bordering on a sneer, but she can’t bring herself to care. She’s so karking tired. 

Skywalker bares his teeth, looking far too much like a terrifying beast and far too little like an actual human, and she scowls, suppressing the fear that laces through her mind. But it’s Kenobi that speaks. “We called you here to ask if there’s any knowledge you could possibly provide us with for the next time we encounter Dooku.”

The name comes like a slap, wiping out any other emotion in her need for revenge. Her scowl deepens.  _ “Bastard,”  _ she hisses, before shaking her head. “He’s based on Serenno, but it’s heavily guarded. Even a full Republic strike force would be overcome by nearby defences.”

“And if it’s just the three of us?” 

Kriff, hearing Padawan Tano’s voice is so strange. The way a mere child’s voice can also sound like the singing of birds and the ringing of bells-

Ventress shrugs it off.

“I’m sure that any of  _ you _ could take him alone now.” She tilts her head. “It’s getting him to talk that will be tricky.”

Mother Talzin places a hand on her shoulder, a cruel glint in her eye. “I have provided them with a dart; imbued in its sting is a potion that will force him to speak only the truth.” She smiles. “He will be unable to hold back, like a prophet drunk on the beauty of his own words.”

“But there’s something more, isn’t there?” Something more to Talzin’s smile. 

“Indeed. The potion was created with the aid of a lock of Count Dooku’s hair.” Her smile is sharp; the smile of a matriarch delighting in the prospect of vengeance for her murdered daughters. “Not only will the dart seek out only him - the potion will draw its power from his life force. Before the potion drains him dry, he will lose his ability to touch the Force in the last moments of his life.”

Ventress can’t help it. The smile breaks across her face as a vindictive glee blasts through her. Beside her, she’s aware that Skywalker is sporting a similar smile, but she can’t bring herself to care.

Revenge.  _ Finally. _

Skywalker laughs, the sound dark and roaring and wholly  _ wrong  _ \- and all it does is invigorate her with a burst of the Dark Side _.  _ “We’ll give you all the details,” he says, and she decides that maybe Skywalker isn’t so bad after all. 

She meets his eyes. They’re the bright molten gold of the Sith, and for the first time in her life, she looks into the eyes of someone entrenched in the Dark Side, and she doesn’t feel any fear at all. 

“I look forward to hearing about it from you personally,” she says lightly. 

Beside them, the Winged Goddess laughs; the sound is bright like the ringing of bells and melodious like the trilling of birds. From deep within the blinding Light that is Tano’s presence, Ventress senses a seed of Darkness, and she marvels at it. “We promise you,” the Goddess says, every inch of her both a deity and a sixteen-year-old girl at the same time, “Dooku will be brought to justice.” 

\--

They decide to leave Dathomir not long after that. 

It’s Obi-Wan’s decision not to contact the Council yet. “None of us know what will happen once we leave the atmosphere of this planet,” he says to his padawans. “We may need time to adjust.” 

With the battle over, he can’t deny that he’s afraid. Afraid for Ahsoka, because it was from  _ her _ power that Grievous died in such a horrible manner. He can’t imagine what her reaction will be like once the unnatural serenity from the Light abandons her the moment she returns to a planet that hasn’t been manipulated by the Nightsisters for eons. Afraid for Anakin, because he’s on the edge of Falling - and has been for so long - and Obi-Wan doesn’t know how much longer he can continuously soften the edges of the boiling rage and hatred that snap at Anakin’s mind. And afraid for himself, because even though there’s a strange acceptance that’s rooted in a solid foundation of  _ Balance,  _ he’s rather worried that he won’t be able to reform a fully corporeal body when he exits the atmosphere. 

Not to mention the whole issue with - well -  _ immortality.  _

As if to confirm his worries, Ahsoka speaks one of his thoughts aloud. “We will,” she says, voice still. “Once we go back into our normal bodies, I’m going to need time to adjust to what I did to Grievous.”

Obi-Wan grimaces. 

From the corner, Anakin is lounging on his seat, legs stretched out like a cat. “And how are you feeling about it now?” he asks. 

“I’ve accepted it for the time being. It was necessary to react quickly to prevent injuries to ourselves.” Briefly, Ahsoka’s wings shimmer into view in slight agitation, simultaneously blinding while not being quite visible to the naked eye. “But the moment we clear the atmosphere, the acceptance I have will be overtaken by horror.”

The way she says it - as if she’s stating a mere fact, with no emotion behind it - does nothing to alleviate Obi-Wan’s worries. It doesn’t help that it sounds  _ nothing  _ like her at all. It’s almost like she’s a different person. 

The corner of Ahsoka’s mouth twitches upwards. “Aren’t we all, Master?”

And to the side, from Anakin: “You’re thinking pretty loudly, Obi-Wan.”

Chastised by his padawans, Obi-Wan pulls up his shields, feeling still human enough to feel the rise of heat around where his face should be. “My apologies.”

Anakin snickers, the shadows around him dancing along with his amusement. 

Desperate to change the topic, Obi-Wan brings up another of his worries. “I’m a little concerned about what we would tell the Council if we arrive at the Temple in our current forms.”

Anakin shrugs. “Kriff the Council, for all I care.”

_ “Anakin!” _

“What?” Anakin sits up, an amused smile slashing open his face. “They won’t miss us if we’re gone for another few days while we adjust. Besides - Mother Talzin saw something, didn’t she?”

Ahsoka nods. Mother Talzin had predicted that on their way back to Coruscant, they’d run into potential trouble - and she’d also predicted that they’d need an extra kyber crystal, which she had provided them with from deep within the small treasury of Dathomir. “I’ve never heard of anyone who could receive visions like that so often without going mad.”

“It’s likely a side-effect of our presence here,” Obi-Wan says. “We’ve been acting as amplifiers to their abilities.”

“And their endurance,” Ahsoka remarks. “During the battle, I could sense that the Nightsisters tired a lot less easily.”

“Indeed.”

They lapse into a brief silence as they begin to prepare the ship for takeoff. Sitting at the co-pilot’s chair while semi-incorporeal, Obi-Wan thinks, is an incredibly odd experience; odder still is how he doesn’t even feel the need to reach out to the buttons and levers, allowing the blue-green mist to gently slide over the necessary controls to prepare the ship. 

Odder  _ still  _ is the fact that despite Anakin’s current position in the back of the cockpit rather than at the front in the pilot’s seat, the buttons and levers on the pilot’s side are moving, pushed and pulled by a hand that dips in and out of the shadows. Absurdly, the appearance and disappearance of Anakin’s hand from the shadows reminds Obi-Wan of one of the whack-a-porg games he’d seen in arcades during one of the Coruscanti expeditions as an Initiate, and he turns his head (or, more accurately, gathers the mist into a semi-corporeal face) to Anakin in exasperation.

“Are you really too lazy to get up from the backseat?” he asks. 

Anakin grins, one of his hands already disappeared inside his own shadow as he prepares the pilot’s controls from a distance. Rather than answering, he tilts sideways, falling into his shadow and emerging right beside Obi-Wan to plop down on the pilot’s seat. “Maybe,” Anakin teases. 

Obi-Wan doesn’t dignify that with a verbal response, choosing instead to roll his eyes. Behind him, a gentle amusement seeps through the Force as Ahsoka chuckles, and in the moment, it’s really just the three of them - no war, no gods, just their bickering and the comfort they find in each other’s company. 

Then the moment breaks, and they come back to reality. “Well then,” Obi-Wan says, and he’s still human enough to feel the gentle flutterings of nervousness in his stomach, “shall we get going?” 

\--

The moment they break the atmosphere, everything comes crashing down upon them.

Everything suddenly feels so much more  _ tight. _ Obi-Wan falls forward in his seat, gasping, as the feeling of suddenly being trapped in a body that’s too stiff and  _ corporeal  _ overwhelms his senses. He grasps the sides of his chair, feeling the hard metal of the armrests, and everything feels too hard, too solid,  _ too rigid- _

Behind him, fear and horror burst through the Force. Ahsoka’s breath begins to come hard and fast, and Obi-Wan tries to reach for the Force to send her a wave of calm, but he’s overcome with another wave of sheer  _ wrongness  _ that batters at his physical senses. “Oh, Force,” she’s gasping, overwhelmed with the sudden reality of being forced to confront what she’d done to Grievous. “Oh,  _ Force _ -”

“Ahsoka,” he manages, and he makes to move out of his seat, but she jerks back.

“I think,” she whispers between breaths, “I’m going to be sick.”

Then she’s out of her chair, bolting out of the cockpit and to the ‘fresher. 

Obi-Wan stands - or tries to. He takes a step and falls to his knees, suddenly unable to comprehend  _ why _ he can’t walk. But everything feels so wrong - so  _ heavy _ \- and the metal under his feet feels too dead and solid and  _ corporeal.  _ On Dathomir, everything had felt alive in the Force, and it had been such a simple matter to move over the shining presence of everything within the Force. Even the air had been alive with brightness, but here - everything feels dead. Dead, solid, and too still. 

He reaches for the Force, trying to find the formlessness that he had become accustomed to, but it hovers tantalizingly out of reach as he tries to process the shock of being slammed into a mortal body again. It shouldn’t be so hard - he’d been  _ in  _ this body for decades - so why-

Then he looks up, and realizes that he’s staring at Anakin’s legs. 

Anakin, who hasn’t moved at all, or said anything. 

_ Anakin.  _

He calls out unconsciously through their bond, reaching desperately to see if his padawan is dealing with this any better than they are.

“I’m alright, Obi-Wan,” Anakin says softly, and his tone sends shivers down Obi-Wan’s spine. It’s the same tone he’d used above Umbara when he’d been a hair's breadth from Falling. Obi-Wan drags his head upwards, ignoring the feeling that his body is too  _ rigidsolidrestrictive _ , and he stares into the still-gold eyes of Anakin Skywalker. 

It’s then he realizes that for the first time since Umbara, their bond is closed off. In a panic, Obi-Wan stretches out, reaching with the Force, and he encounters nothing but an obsidian-black wall at the entry to Anakin’s mind. 

“In fact, I feel a lot better than before,” Anakin continues in the same tone. He smiles - a normal,  _ human _ smile, only Obi-Wan finds the human smile to be more fear-inducing than anything he’d ever seen from Anakin before. “It’s a lot easier to think when I don’t have you clouding my mind,  _ Master.” _

Oh, no.

No, no, no-

Obi-Wan tries to summon the strength he’d felt on Dathomir as he desperately reaches across their bond. Anakin can’t have really, truly  _ Fallen  _ \- he’d been straddling the Dark, utilizing it for good so far, but there’s something that’s just so  _ wrong _ about how Anakin feels right now-

But he can’t find that strength. Everything is still too solid, too corporeal, too dead, and Obi-Wan tries to pull on a different weapon. The Negotiator knew how to talk in circles around anyone - surely, he can still-

But his tongue fails him, and he only manages one word. One name.

“Ahsoka.”

Anakin stiffens, and in the absence of words, a new sound intrudes on Obi-Wan’s senses - the sound of retching, and muffled sobs. His heart aches, but the moment he tries to stand again, his legs fail him and he falls to the ground again. 

But it’s enough. At the mention of his own Padawan, streaks of blue creep back into Anakin’s eyes, and the coldness that had been his presence mingles with a new worry. “Ahsoka,” he mutters, and Obi-Wan nearly slumps over in relief at hearing a hint of the familiar warmth in Anakin’s voice. Anakin stands, the movement still graceful as a tusk-cat but far more normal and  _ human,  _ and he disappears out of the door to the cockpit in search of his padawan. 

\--

He finds Ahsoka dry heaving in the ‘fresher.

For a moment, he watches in the doorway. She’s sobbing - great, heaving sobs, mingled with sounds as she throws up the little that’s left in her stomach - and for the first time, Anakin realizes that none of them had eaten since they had first entered the atmosphere of Dathomir. Hunger, gnawing and sharp, claws at his stomach, and he draws on the pain to keep him standing. 

( _ Gods don’t need to eat, after all. _ )

He’d gone hungry before, as a child. But he’d been weak then. He’s stronger now. Stronger, and nothing like the padawan who’s currently bent over in the ‘fresher, sobbing over what she had done when she was in a form that was not entirely mortal. He tilts his head, observing her presence - it’s still a brilliant Light, but it’s tainted with a Darkness that he knows so well. 

Anakin catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and sees that his eyes are the colour of molten gold. 

What was it that he’d felt when Obi-Wan had said Ahsoka’s name earlier?

For the life of him, Anakin can’t remember. He’s not sure he wants to. The Darkness croons at his mind in the voice of the Son, telling him how lovely it would be if he were to change the balance, if he were to shift the Light in his Sister-

_ Sister? _

He blinks, temporarily confused, and Morai chooses that moment to fly into his chest to fill him with Light.

It happens too quickly for him to push her away. The convor screeches, the sound sharp and cutting and as beautiful as a song, and in the Force, she flies straight through the nugget of Light - the remnant of the Daughter - that lies in Anakin, and she amplifies it tenfold. He stumbles back a step, too stunned to be angry, before he realizes what had nearly happened.

_ Oh, Force. _

He’d nearly truly  _ Fallen,  _ and he’d been about to take his Padawan down with him. 

He stumbles back another two steps, his mind reeling, and Ahsoka finally turns to look at him. “Hey, Master,” she croaks, bleary-eyed, and retches again. 

Force. She hadn’t sensed anything at all. He’d seen the disorientation Obi-Wan had experienced in the cockpit, but he hadn’t truly thought anything of it other than reveling in the fact that his own mind was clear of the blue-green mist he’d let in since Umbara. For Ahsoka’s senses to be suddenly so clouded with confusion, even with her nearly-Fallen master standing  _ right there,  _ did not bode well at all. 

But that doesn’t matter now. None of Anakin’s confusion matters. He shoves aside his anger, his confusion, and he rushes forward to envelop her in a hug. 

“Hey,” he tells her. “Hey. It’s okay.”

It’s not, but he’s not sure what else he can say.

She’d stopped retching by now. Instead, the sobs continue, soaking his shoulder with tears as she releases all the horror and fear she hadn’t even been  _ able  _ to feel for the past few days. “I  _ mutilated  _ him,” she cries, and Anakin’s throat closes up at the despair in her voice. “He was going to kill us, and he’d killed so many people, so many  _ soldiers,  _ but the way I-”

Her voice cuts off, and for a horrible moment, Anakin can recall with vivid clarity the way Grievous’ bones had crunched and the sound his ripping flesh had made when it had been forcefully regrown with the power of a goddess. 

He tightens his arms around her, and he reaches for their bond. To his relief, he’s able to call on the Light, sending her soothing waves of warmth to calm the horror tearing at her mind. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“It  _ was-” _

“No, Ahsoka. Listen to me. What that was on Dathomir - it wasn’t entirely us.” He pats her on the back, pulling away briefly to look at her in the face. She needs to hear this.  _ “This  _ is you. The real you. But down there, on Dathomir-” He puffs out a breath, and tries again. “On Mortis, the Father told me that they assumed the forms that were molded on those who surrounded them. Our forms on Dathomir were changed by how they manipulated the Force. It wasn’t us.”

She shakes her head. “But it was. I  _ felt  _ this way when I saved Barriss - I remember.”

“No, it’s not! Look-”

“Master-”

“Ahsoka.” He sends her another wave of calm. “Could you sense me down there?”

She stills under his hand. 

He pushes forward. “You could. And I was- I was strong in the dark side. You could sense it. But-”

“It might have changed how you looked, Master,” she whispers, her voice too soft, “but I can still sense the dark side in you. You’re just as powerful as the Son.”

He recoils. She continues, unheeded, and her gaze, teary-eyed and terrified, bores into his. He can’t look away. 

“It  _ was  _ me down there,” she says. She blinks, and there’s a flicker of jade in her eyes before they fade back into their startling blue. “But it was just…  _ more.  _ And the same happened with you, and with Master Obi-Wan. We were different, but we were the same.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that. He stares at her, frozen, and she breaks her gaze. 

But she isn’t wrong, is she? He’d thought about pulling the Light from her just a few moments ago. In the Force, he stares at Ahsoka, taking in the brilliant white-gold that’s still slightly tainted by the poison the Son had infected her with on Mortis, and he thinks about how if he were to look at his own presence right now, he’d see the mirror opposite - a presence entrenched in the dark side with a seed of the Light left over from the time he became a conduit for the Daughter. 

He reaches for the Force, and finds nothing but darkness. He slams his shields shut.

A noise draws his attention. His head snaps up, hand instinctively going for his lightsaber, before he sees Obi-Wan at the ‘fresher door. 

“Are you both alright?” Obi-Wan asks. 

No. No, they’re not. Beside him, Ahsoka sniffles, and through their bond, Anakin can sense the image that keeps replaying itself in her mind - the image of Grievous, horribly mutilated and screaming in agony - and through his bond with Obi-Wan, he can sense that his master can feel Ahsoka’s pain. 

Obi-Wan meets his eyes, and though Anakin hadn’t noticed it before, he sees the slight tenseness of Obi-Wan’s shoulders relaxing as he sees that Anakin’s eyes are no longer golden. But Anakin doesn’t feel balanced. He doesn’t feel stable. He feels like he’s clinging onto the edge by his fingertips, dangerously close to falling into a void, and he isn’t sure if he has enough strength to do anything but keep himself there. 

“Obi-Wan,” he says, and his voice feels so horribly small, “can you help me?”

_ Help me stay. Help me not to Fall. Help me- _

There’s a soft brush at his shields and Anakin opens his bond, letting the blue-green mist filter through his mind. It feels clumsier and weaker and thinner than before, but it’s  _ something,  _ like a strand of twine curling around his torso to help support his grip on the edge of a cliff. 

“I’ve got you,” Obi-Wan murmurs.

For a while, they sit there on the ‘fresher floor, too exhausted to do anything other than lean against each other’s shoulders. Hesitantly, Anakin tries to calm himself, using some of the meditation techniques Obi-Wan had taught him years ago, and he reaches for the Force again. 

There’s nothing but darkness again. It’s cold, cruel, and deliciously tempting. He reaches out, desperately looking for the Light that he’d been used to wielding for over the past decade, and he finds it, but it’s so far away and hard to reach. He stretches again, aiming to grasp the Light that hovers so tantalizingly out of reach-

The Darkness laughs at him in the voice of the Son.

_ Silly little Jedi,  _ it hisses.  _ You are one of ours now.  _

He slams his shields closed again, heart racing. His eyes flicker to Obi-Wan, then Ahsoka, and for a horrible moment, he’s afraid of what they might say. 

But they aren’t even looking at him. Ahsoka’s eyes are closed as she tries to release her horror into the Force, and Obi-Wan is staring at his hands, as if he’d forgotten what they’d look like on a human body. As Anakin watches, they explode into a fine blue-mist before reforming. 

“Master?” he asks tentatively.

Obi-Wan flinches. “I’m fine,” he says automatically, and Anakin’s mouth twists at the sound of his master’s lie. “I just need time to remember.”

Well, they have time. They have the time they need to get back to Coruscant-

Then the ship jerks, and dozens of new presences make themselves known. 

Anakin curses. They’d been drifting in real space, too disoriented to even think about even triggering the hyperdrive, and they’d just been caught in a tractor beam. He doesn’t even know how long they’d been drifting, but it’s been long enough for him not to be able to sense the power of Dathomir behind them. 

“Not good,” Obi-Wan mutters, and absurdly, Ahsoka throws her head back to laugh, shrill and hysterical and entirely the sound of a normal sixteen-year-old girl. Obi-Wan makes to stand and he stumbles, body still disoriented, and he grimaces. 

It’s ridiculous. They’re three Jedi. Three  _ gods.  _ They shouldn’t be afraid.

An image rises up beneath Anakin’s eyelids through a bond - the image of Grievous, mutilated and screaming - and Ahsoka’s laughter begins to turn into gasps. 

“I can’t,” she chokes out, hysteria turning into horror. “I can’t do it, not again.”

Anakin’s stomach churns as he pats her on the back. At the doorway, Obi-Wan tries to stand, only for his legs to dissolve into a mist, making him collapse onto the floor. He spits out a string of curses that would’ve had Anakin laughing in any other situation, but in this case, only leaves him with a hollow feeling in his gut.

They’re Jedi. They’re  _ gods.  _ Yet of the three of them, one can’t bear to touch the Force, one is adjusting to his mortal body, and the third is too scared to lean into the Force too deeply lest he Fall into the dark side again. For the first time, Anakin feels weaker as a half-deity compared to when he’d just been a normal Jedi.

“I just-”

Obi-Wan’s voice drags Anakin out of his thoughts. 

“I just need time to adjust,” Obi-Wan says, but there’s an edge of despair in his voice that betrays how worried he is. He reaches for his lightsaber, and abruptly, his hands dissolve into mist, moving through the weapon without picking it up. Frustration bursts into the Force, and Obi-Wan huffs in annoyance.

Then a voice sounds over the comm. Harsh vowels, sharp words. Anakin’s blood boils as he listens. 

“Prepare to be boarded by the forces of Gardulla the Hutt,” rasps a voice over the speakers in Huttese. “Resistance is futile.” 

The ship shudders again, and a new sound intrudes- the sound of a hatch slowly being forced open as Gardulla’s slavers try to make their way on board the  _ Twilight.  _

They can’t fight. Or, more accurately, they can - but if they do fight, it may not bode well for their own sanity. Ahsoka’s eyes flash, wavering between green and blue, and she clenches her fists. She senses it too - not just the presence of the slavers, dark and oily, but also the weak, broken presence of dozens of slaves aboard their ship.

But she’s afraid - Anakin can sense it. The darkness in her Light grows in her agitation, long, spindly fingers beginning to seep through her presence like poison, and he grits his teeth as he makes a decision. Obi-Wan might not be in any fighting shape, and while Ahsoka might be, Anakin will die before he lets the dark side take hold of her again.

“Help me,” he snaps, and he throws his training bonds open in the Force. “You’re both in no shape to fight.”

“Master-”

“Anakin-”

“There’s no  _ time!”  _ His voice rises, an echo of a roar and a snarl beginning to creep in near the end of his words, and in the mirror, he sees flecks of gold beginning to colour his eyes. At the back of the ship, he hears a scuffle and a clang; the sign the slavers have broken through. “Just- don’t let me Fall.”

His voice cracks. The sound of the slavers’ voices begin to get nearer. Ahsoka and Obi-Wan stare at him, hesitant, and Anakin swallows his pride as he pleads with them through their bonds.

_ Please. _

Obi-Wan nods. Behind Anakin, he senses Ahsoka reaching for him through their bond. In his mind, at the precipice of the dark side, a new strand of twine holds him aloft - a strand of white-gold, reinforcing the blue-green rope that makes sure that his leap into the dark side will not lead to him being lost in the Dark. 

He’s scared. He’s not scared of the slavers - he knows he can deal with them. But he’s scared that he’ll Fall, and he’s scared of what he could do if he becomes completely lost to the dark side like the Son - destructive, mad with power, and responsible for the deaths of the ones he loves. He’s scared that he can’t reach the Light anymore. He’s scared that after he touches the dark side again, he won’t be able to come back. 

But if he doesn’t move to fight, then the dark side will take a firmer hold of Ahsoka. If he doesn’t move to fight, he doesn’t know what could happen to Obi-Wan. He doesn’t know how many slavers there are - just that there are several of them, and that they’re geared up and ready to capture new slaves.

_ We got you, Master,  _ echoes Ahsoka’s voice through their bond. Equally as loud, but not as verbose, Obi-Wan’s agreement filters through.  _ We’ll pull you back.  _

Anakin takes a breath, searching for the remnants of the Light leftover from the Daughter within him. He imagines taking it, forming it into a third tether to anchor himself to sanity. He takes a breath as the slavers’ voices approach. In the Force, he stretches out, trying one last time to reach the Light side that he’d been accustomed to during the past twelve years. Like before, it’s  _ there  _ but out of reach, and he mentally prepares himself.

Then he opens himself up to the Force, and a familiar icy power rushes through his veins as he falls into the embrace of the dark side. 

\--

There are four slavers. Two equipped with blasters; one with a vibrowhip; one with a slugthrower. The slugthrower is always useful for fighting Jedi; it wouldn’t kill them, but it’d certainly slow them down enough for the slavers to beat a hasty retreat if necessary. 

They know this ship holds three sentients. Two humans, and a young Togruta. Enough to fetch another hefty sum of money for Gardulla. They move quietly, aware that these sentients might put up a fight. But the slavers win. They always have. 

They force their way through the top hatch of the ship and land in the storage area. It’s relatively empty, save for a few boxes and a coffin-like thing that’s strapped to the wall. The boxes cast long shadows in the low lighting at the back. There’s something off about this ship too - a strange taste in the air and the cramped feeling in the back of this ship - but they swallow back their unease. All ships taste the same when they’re being invaded. 

Their leader - a grizzled human of forty years, steps forward. “Come out,” he calls mockingly in Huttese. He says it again in Basic. “You got some nice cargo back here.” 

The shadows look a little big. Perhaps the lights are dimming - an effort of this ship’s doomed crew to save themselves by taking on the slavers in the dark. 

One of the slavers - a young Ortolan - peers at the coffin and shouts in horror. 

“What is  _ that?! _ ” she screams. 

The human rolls his eyes. So they’d stumbled across an odd shipment. Big deal. 

Then he looks inside the coffin, and sees a half-metal Kaleesh face, frozen in agony, with flesh and dried blood grown in warped shapes around it, and his stomach churns as his unease grows. His gut tells him that there’s something  _ wrong  _ here - something that tells him to get out. But he ignores it. “Eh, shut it,” he snaps. “It’s probably-”

The escape hatch they’d used to cut their way in slams shut with a  _ clang.  _

The sound echoes in the darkening room like the toll of an executioner’s bell, foreboding and ringing too loudly. The human rolls his eyes, pushing aside the unease he feels as the rest of his people ready their weapons. “Hey Zhig,” he snips into his comm, his voice reedy and high, “You closed the hatch. Re-open it, will ya?”

There’s no sound from the other end. 

“Zhig,” he says, exasperated, as he comms the pilot again. “Quit playing games.”

Silence. 

The Ortolan raises her voice. “Maybe we should-”

She doesn’t get much further in her sentence before the sound interrupts them from the comm. They’d never heard their pilot utter such a noise. The hairs on their arms rise and shivers run down their backs, terror beginning to make itself known as they hear the bloodcurdling scream of terror on the other end that cuts off just as quickly as it started. 

The slavers look at each other, fear beginning to widen their eyes. The human raises his hand to his comm. 

“Whoever’s there,” he calls out, voice shrill as the edges of fear begin to creep in, “If you don’t show yourself, I’ll detonate the sl-”

All the comms of the slavers rip themselves off of their arms and belts, floating impossibly in the air, before they crumble into a ball, crushed by an invisible fist. 

The human raises his hand, signaling to the Falleen with the slugthrower. So they’re dealing with a Jedi. “Jedi,” he says, voice falsely placating. “We can talk this out.”

In the corner of his eye, something moves. The human slaver whips his head around, but sees nothing. Most of the other slavers look at him with an inquisitive gaze, but one of them - a Gran wielding a vibrowhip, begins to tremble.

“What is it  _ now,  _ Grinluff?” the human asks, exasperated.

Slowly, the Gran extends a shaking finger, and he points to the corner. 

The slavers turn slowly, weapons pointed and ready to attack, and they see nothing in the shadows behind the crates. One of them opens their mouth to speak-

The Ortolan begins screaming, her voice high and shrill with terror. “No, no,  _ no- _ ”

The human whips around, heart pounding. “Teb, get a kriffing grip-”

_ “I am not a coward!”  _ she shrieks, responding to an unseen voice, and the vibrowhip comes alive in her hand, lashing out at nothing and everything. The slavers throw themselves to the ground frantically.  _ “Get out of my head!” _

A new sound rips itself out of her throat - a howl that makes it sound as though her mind is shattering - and the vibrowhip snaps out, grazing the Falleen with its wild flailings, before the Ortolan shudders to a stop and begins to make strange noises. 

“Teb?” the human asks. 

The Ortolan gargles, her face beginning to pale, and the slavers realize that she’s choking as she begins clawing at an invisible grip around her neck. The Falleen whips back and forth, looking for the Jedi, but there’s nothing. Nothing but the strange cargo and the eerie silence underneath Teb’s gasps for air. 

Then-

The slavers’ weapons simultaneously rip themselves out of their grip, pulled to the far corner by an invisible power. The Ortolan falls to the ground, sucking in great, heaving gasps of air, and the slavers jump as a figure emerges from the corner of their eye - one of the humans. He watches them, an unignited lightsaber in his hand, and in the darkness of the room, his eyes seem to glow an unnatural gold. 

The human slaver shudders. The Jedi were supposed to be peaceful, but this Jedi- and the way he moves - just seems so  _ wrong _ -

Then something strange happens, and the Jedi flinches. The glow of his eyes dim, fading into a cold blue, and the anger on the Jedi’s face smooths out. A brief flash of horror crosses his face, and for a moment, he looks so young and human and  _ vulnerable. _

The Falleen doesn’t hesitate. In one smooth motion, he draws a hidden pistol, and pulls the trigger.

\--

It happens all at once. One moment, Anakin can feel the terror rolling off the slavers in waves. Their eyes are wide with panic, their hands trembling. He relishes in it, sucking in the cold power that calls to him in the Force, and he grins, ready to toy with them, to make them feel the pain they inflicted on others tenfold-

Then something tugs at him. A strand of Light, a reminder of Balance, and a gentle whisper from Obi-Wan and Ahsoka.

_ Anakin.  _

And the dark recoils.

He pauses in his steps, horror blooming in his chest. He  _ knows  _ how easy it is to be lost in the dark side - and even with some preparation before the slavers had broken onto the ship, he’d nearly jumped headfirst into madness in his drive for revenge against the slavers. Being entrenched in the dark side had been different on Dathomir - there, he’d had the strength of the blinding Light that was Ahsoka and the solid balance that was Obi-Wan to draw on to prevent himself from going insane. It had been different before they went to Dathomir too - back then, they hadn’t gone through the shock of living in their  _ other  _ forms. But here and now - with all of them still reeling with the aftershocks of being slammed back into a mortal body - he needs to rely more heavily on his own self-control than on Obi-Wan and Ahsoka, and he’d nearly lost himself to the dark side immediately.

Force. They’d only left Dathomir just over an hour ago, and he’d nearly gone past the point of no return twice in that time. 

Then the Force screams in warning, and one of the slavers’ hidden weapons goes off. Instinctively, Anakin jerks backward, drawing his saber-

The slug fragments slam into his chest, burning through his tabards and into his skin. For a split second, there’s nothing but a stabbing, white-hot pain, echoed by the cries of alarm through his bonds with Obi-Wan and Ahsoka. He tries to take a breath, and instinctive panic begins to set in as he realizes he can’t kriffing  _ breathe _ -

And with the fear comes rage, then hatred.

_ How dare they shoot at a god.  _

He raises his hand and clenches it into a fist. All four of the slavers gasp, hoisted into the air by an invisible grip around their throats, and he takes a moment to assess the damage done by the slugthrower. It’s not ideal - there’s a strange tightness in his chest and a sharp pain that indicates at least one broken rib. But it’s something to draw strength from. 

Pain fuels the dark side, after all. 

“Jedi… scum,” gasps the human slaver. “You aren’t… supposed...”

Anakin’s voice is soft. “I’m no Jedi.”

“A… dark Jedi... then?” 

Anakin smiles, and he raises his other hand and twists. 

The sound is deafening in the silence. The Ortolan slaver’s head jerks violently to the side as he snaps her neck, and her body slumps to the floor. “Try again,” Anakin teases, and he can’t help but relish in the terror that’s beginning to roll off the slavers in waves again. “You’re closer this time.”

There’s a dull pull in his mind from the other end of the training bonds. Dimly, he’s aware of Obi-Wan and Ahsoka calling to him, trying to pull him back - but the pain in his chest just makes it so  _ easy  _ to ignore them. Besides, he’s doing this for them. To keep them  _ safe.  _

The human’s eyes are wide with terror. He opens his mouth, but in his fear, no sound comes out, and Anakin can’t help but laugh. Let the slavers feel the pain they inflicted on others for a change. “Come on,” Anakin taunts, and he twists his hand again, and another slaver - the Falleen - slumps to the ground with his head tilted at an unnatural angle. “I’m sure you can make a guess.” 

The Gran breaks. He babbles, pleading with the angel of death for mercy, promising to repent and to never touch a slave again-

Rage bubbles up in Anakin’s stomach, and his gaze sharpens. These slavers deserve no mercy. They’d already harmed so many - they’d probably stolen dozens, if not hundreds, of sentients from their homes. They’d ripped the sentients from the arms of their families and they’d stolen their identities, their dignity, their right to be a  _ person,  _ all for the sake of a few coins in their pocket. In the slavers’ ship, Anakin can sense the presence of the captive slaves - dejected, terrified, and  _ broken,  _ and his resolve hardens as he throws his hand forward and unleashes crimson lightning upon the remaining slavers. 

“You don’t deserve mercy,” he snarls over their screams, and he draws on the burning in his chest and on the cold hatred he feels for them to intensify the lightning. The chip removal scar over his stomach burns in remembrance, and he stalks forward, intent on seeing this through to the end. “You don’t-”

_ “Master!” _

The sound of Ahsoka’s voice and the brilliance of her presence cuts through his rage. The door hisses open and for a split second, it looks as though there’s a star shining underneath her skin, bathing the room in a white-gold glow and washing away most of the shadows, and in that moment, Anakin can’t help but wonder if this is how she looks to other sentients - a  _ wonderterror _ with wings of light stretching to fill all corners of the room and with a thousand eyes that stare at him in the Force. 

Then the moment passes, and he notices how there are still long shadows on his side of the room, cast by his own wings which encompass the area behind him. In the middle of the already-cramped room, the human and the Gran huddle together, whimpering in fear, their skin burnt and smoking from the strength of Anakin’s Force-lightning. 

A voice murmurs into his mind - a gentle admonition from Obi-Wan. 

_ Anakin. Come back.  _

But - by the Force - he’s having a hard time remembering  _ why  _ he should. Dimly, he recalls the horror he’d felt just a minute ago when he’d realized he’d nearly lost himself completely to the dark side again, but he can’t remember why he shouldn’t let the remaining slavers suffer like he and so many other slaves did. The galaxy would be better off without slaver scum. He looks at the bodies of the ones he’d just killed, and he can’t find anything in himself other than a sharp vindication. 

“We promised we wouldn’t let you Fall,” Ahsoka says, and she steps forward, suddenly looking every inch like a terrified sixteen-year-old Togruta Padawan burdened with a heavy task. Her eyes flicker to the crate containing Grievous’ remains and her breath hitches, but she steps forward again, reaching for Anakin. “We  _ promised,  _ Master.”

From behind Ahsoka, a blue-green mist seeps onto the floor and reforms clumsily into the shape of Obi-Wan, who waves his hand and puts the remaining slavers to sleep with a Force-suggestion. “Anakin,” Obi-Wan calls out hesitantly, and suddenly he blinks through space-time and he’s right  _ there,  _ his arms on Anakin’s shoulders. “Anakin, are you with me?”

There’s a part of Anakin that wants to jerk away and roar at Obi-Wan and Ahsoka for daring to interfere. The slavers would be better off dead, and he’d been doing this to keep them  _ safe,  _ to prevent Ahsoka from having to face Grievous again, and to prevent Obi-Wan from getting hurt while he re-adjusted. Then there’s another part - a small, growing part of guilt and doubt, gnawing its way into his mind, admonishing himself for nearly going into an uncontrollable Fall rather than dipping into the dark side with caution and self-control the way he had before Dathomir, and admonishing himself for forcing Ahsoka and Obi-Wan to come to the back of the ship. 

The conflict freezes him into inaction. He can’t do anything but stare - stare at Obi-Wan, then Ahsoka, and then Obi-Wan again, and behind him, he feels it as his wings collapse into his back and disappear. 

Ahsoka steps forward, each and every step trembling but resolute, and Obi-Wan moves back as she places a hand over the injuries left by the slug. “I’m going to heal you,” she says slowly.

_ Leave me alone,  _ a part of him snarls. 

_ Help me,  _ another part of him pleads.  _ Before I Fall too far.  _

Amidst the conflict, there’s not much he can do other than stare at Ahsoka for fear of himself lashing out and harming her and Obi-Wan. Her hand feels unnaturally cold on his chest, the coolness a soft balm to the burning pain left by the slug fragments, and there’s a strange tugging sensation as the fragments of the slug are pulled out, the pain numbed by the gentle pulse of healing moving from Ahsoka’s hand into his body. There’s an even stranger sensation in his chest as he feels his ribs mending, all pain dulled by the soft coolness of the Light. 

The white-hot pain disappears, and with it goes a part of his rage. 

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. 

Ahsoka pulls back. “Are you alright?” she asks warily. Beside her, Obi-Wan’s eyes are narrow in concern. 

Anakin blinks at them. He’s suddenly aware of how cold the air is on his back without the wings, of how in the corner of his eye, he can see the limp bodies of the two slavers he’d just killed without mercy, and as his rage drains out, he finds in himself a numbness in response to what he’d nearly just done. 

_ They deserved it,  _ a part of him snarls in the voice of the Son.  _ They deserved worse.  _

_ Maybe,  _ another part of him acquiesces,  _ but you nearly lost yourself in the process.  _

He opens his mouth again and tries to speak. “I-”

No other sound comes out. He doesn’t know how to feel. There are so many things crashing down on him all at once. Guilt, from nearly Falling too deeply into the dark side. Anger, at himself for being unable to control his hatred, and at Obi-Wan and Ahsoka for holding him back. Terror, because he’s karking terrified that he’ll become like a Sith. Hunger, because he hadn’t kriffing eaten for days, and hurt, because he can still sense the slaves in the other ship who are broken, and-

-and Ahsoka tackles him, pulling him and Obi-Wan impulsively into a hug. Anakin stiffens at the contact, then carefully relaxes, counting his breaths in an attempt to ground himself. 

_ One. Two. _ He feels the gentle weight of Ahsoka’s arms and the warmth of Obi-Wan’s.  _ Three. Four. _ On the other side of the training bonds, he senses the warmth of the light side, and he reaches for it.  _ Five. Six. _ He closes his eyes, and in the Force, he gingerly pulls himself out of the grasping fingers of the Dark, and he takes hold of the precipice once more.  _ Seven. Eight.  _ He opens his eyes.  _ Nine. Ten.  _

He opens his mouth and speaks.

“We should take care of the slaves in the other ship,” he murmurs, and though they try to hide it from him, Anakin can sense Ahsoka and Obi-Wan relaxing. A remnant of hatred boils up in his stomach as he catches sight of the two remaining unconscious slavers, and he takes another breath, releasing the emotion into the Force. It’s not entirely successful - there’s a hint of venom in his voice when he speaks again. “And what about those slaver scum?”

Obi-Wan and Ahsoka draw back, faces darkening as they look upon the unconscious slavers. “They won’t wake up anytime soon, I can guarantee that,” Obi-Wan says. 

“I say the galaxy is better off without them,” Ahsoka adds, and Anakin can’t help the fierce approval within him that leaps forward at those words. 

“Let’s take care of them later.” Obi-Wan’s hands land on their shoulders, interrupting their train of thought with a gentle urgency. “For now, let’s take care of the slaves in the other ship.”

Anakin bites his tongue, guilt warring with the desire for vengeance, and he finally acquiesces with a nod. “Alright,” he says, and they move to release the slaves. 

\--

It takes hours to de-chip the slaves, and hours longer to ensure that they’re fed and cared for. Obi-Wan can’t pretend that he didn’t feel a petty satisfaction in plundering the slavers’ quarters for food and clothing to give to the former slaves. Though it isn’t a Jedi sentiment, his mind turns to the two slavers locked in a small room on the  _ Twilight  _ \- and he can’t help but agree with what Ahsoka had said. 

_ I say the galaxy is better off without them.  _

It had been sickening to find children amongst the slaves. Like all the others, they were battered, bruised, and broken, and it made him burn with a righteous fury that was made worse when he realized that Anakin had once been like that when he was young. 

They’d offered the now-freed slaves passage to Coruscant, but they’d declined, wishing to return home or to find a new place on other planets. Obi-Wan had offered to speak to the Senator of Alderaan, and Anakin the Senator of Naboo; and some of the freed slaves had agreed. The freed slaves had also insisted on giving some of the crates of supplies, pointing out that they had no need for twenty crates of Corellian rum. 

Soon after, the newly-commandeered ship had disappeared into hyperspace with a word of thanks, leaving Obi-Wan with his padawans and the remaining slavers on the  _ Twilight.  _

“What do we do with them?” Ahsoka asks, staring at the two bodies of the dead slavers at the back of the ship. 

“Space ‘em,” Anakin suggests. There’s a golden gleam in his eye; throughout the hours they’d taken to free the slaves, Obi-Wan had had his attention split between re-learning how to use a mortal body and how to keep Anakin grounded. Despite himself, Obi-Wan can’t find it within him to disagree, and so, out the airlock the slaver bodies went. 

Which left the two living ones. 

“And what about these ones?” Ahsoka asks, sliding open the door to reveal the still-sleeping slavers, cuffed and still battered.

“Space ‘em,” Anakin repeats, making no effort to hide the venom in his voice, and Obi-Wan feels the small, reckless part of himself shout in agreement. 

“They’ll face justice on Coruscant,” he says instead, voice carefully neutral. A nugget of resentment appears in the Force from Anakin and is immediately quashed. 

There’s a frown in Ahsoka’s voice when she speaks again. “But they saw us.”

Obi-Wan thinks back to what feels like eons ago - to the time the Father had removed Anakin’s memory, and to the time he’d removed Maul’s. 

“They won’t remember,” he tells her, and when he lifts his hand, he sees nothing but a blue-green mist. 

\--

The trip to hyperspace is delayed even further when Ahsoka receives a vision, insisting that the kyber crystal they’d received from Mother Talzin needed to be given to Hondo Ohnaka. Obi-Wan tries to object - kyber is  _ sacred,  _ and should not be given about recklessly - but Ahsoka stands firm. 

“If we give Hondo enough incentive to trade,” she says, “he’ll help us to save the lives of at least seven Jedi. No kyber crystal is worth more than that.” 

A good point. Obi-Wan concedes, and over two hours later, Hondo Ohnaka leaves with the rum, the kyber, and a promise to save lives. And finally, hours after they’ve left the atmosphere of Dathomir, the  _ Twilight  _ jumps into hyperspace. 

\--

They compose the report for the Council while they eat. 

“I’ll give the report myself,” Obi-Wan says, and in the Force, he tries to send waves of calm to his padawans. “We’ll tell them that Ventress was the one who struck down Grievous, and that out of all the Nightsisters, only Mother Talzin had the ability to incapacitate him in such a way.”

Ahsoka laughs, the sound a tad hysterical. “I never thought you’d  _ lie _ to the Council, Master Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan’s smile is sharp. “What I’ll tell them is true - from a certain point of view.”

They lapse into silence, quickly consuming the military rations and nursing the cups of tea that Obi-Wan had had the foresight to bring, and it’s then Obi-Wan notices that Anakin has barely spoken since they’d freed the slaves. 

“Are you alright, Anakin?”

Anakin flinches, the movement spilling the hot tea onto the floor. He stares at the half-empty cup. 

“Of course I’m fine,” he croaks.

They lapse into a much heavier silence. Obi-Wan waits, giving Anakin the opportunity to speak should he need to, but nothing happens. Obi-Wan doesn’t push - he doesn’t want to pressure Anakin, for surely, if Anakin needs him - he’ll speak up. 

“Alright, then,” he replies, and he turns back to the report. The Force around them swirls in a disjointed harmony as they ignore the bantha in the room, both Anakin and Ahsoka making vaguely affirmative noises or giving short suggestions for disagreements as Obi-Wan reads the report to them aloud. 

The report is finished with little fanfare. When Obi-Wan goes to save it, he misses the button on the datapad when his hand turns into mist and goes through the cursed thing, and he swears under his breath before concentrating and saving the report with a solid hand. Ahsoka gives him a wry smile at the sound of his cursing, but it’s faint and tired and  _ scared,  _ but what worries Obi-Wan even more is the fact that Anakin has barely reacted at all. 

Alright. What they’d faced was unusual. But surely-

Obi-Wan sighs, and decides to confront the issue. “Anakin-”

Anakin whips his head around, eyes wild yet faraway, and he shrinks back like a frightened cat. At their feet, the shadows flicker in his agitation. “I said I’m  _ fine!”  _ he snaps, and a sudden power bursts from him, pushing everything back in a ring around where he sits and toppling some of the boxes on the side. Grievous’ coffin creaks as it is slammed into the wall, the sound terrifying and sudden in the cramped space. 

Twin pulses of fear from Anakin and Ahsoka leap into the Force to match Obi-Wan’s, and he quickly releases his emotions into the Force. 

_ No. This needs to be talked about now.  _

“You most certainly are not,” Obi-Wan says firmly, but it’s for nought; Anakin stares at the destruction around him with eyes wide, giving no indication that he has heard Obi-Wan at all. Beside him, Ahsoka reaches out tentatively. 

“Master-”

“Get  _ away  _ from me!” 

Anakin’s hand snaps out as if to ward her off. In a surge of uncontrolled power that Obi-Wan hadn’t seen happen since Anakin’s early padawan days, the Force pulses, and Ahsoka slides backwards across the floor on her rear, a cry of surprise ripping itself out of her before she hits the wall with a stunned look. 

_ Oh, Force. That’s not good.  _

Before Obi-Wan can even think to gather his thoughts, Anakin scrambles backwards, staring at his hands as if he’d never seen them before, before reaching out tentatively to Ahsoka. “I’m sorry-”

“What the hell?” Ahsoka demands, voice incredulous, and Anakin shrinks backwards at her words. 

“Ahsoka- I’m sorry- I-”

And in a display of emotion Obi-Wan hadn’t seen in years, Anakin begins to shake, his breaths becoming shorter and faster, and his eyes begin to shine with unshed tears. 

_ Kriff.  _

All emotions flee Obi-Wan then - all emotions but a fierce protectiveness and a sudden need to ensure that Anakin can  _ breathe.  _ “Anakin,” he says softly, and he reaches out slowly. “Anakin. I’m here.” 

Panic blooms in the Force, untethered and burning, and Obi-Wan speaks again. 

“Anakin.” He opens his arms - an invitation. “I’m here.” 

Anakin stares at him, breaths coming in a harsh pant, before giving in and curling up in Obi-Wan’s arms.

“I’m here,” Obi-Wan says again. He’d never been particularly good at comforting Anakin - hell, he’d rarely confronted Anakin on issues this severe - but damned if he won’t try his best. “Breathe. It’s alright.”

Behind Anakin, Ahsoka stands, quietly moving across the floor. “Mind if I join the hug, Skyguy?” she asks gently, and at the jerk of Anakin’s head, Obi-Wan lifts his arm, giving Ahsoka the space to cuddle in. 

(Ahsoka’s skin is so  _ cold,  _ but the warmth of her presence more than makes up for it.)

They sit there in silence as Obi-Wan moves his hand in soothing repetitions down Anakin’s back. They’d rarely done this - because of the war, there had been so little time to spend together that wasn’t on the battlefield, and even less time to be able to let themselves go. Obi-Wan closes his eyes, savoring the feeling of  _ familybrothersisterfather  _ that murmurs in the Force, and for a moment, there’s nothing but the warmth of each other’s presences and the soft shaking of Anakin’s body. 

“How could you stand to be near me?” 

Anakin’s voice is shaky and terrified and entirely uncharacteristic of him. 

“Of course I can,” Ahsoka snips, though her smile is half-hearted and filled with worry. “We’re always here for you, Master.” 

“But don’t you  _ see?”  _ Anakin shoves back at Obi-Wan half-heartedly, then falls back into his embrace. “You sensed me. I can do such terrible things.”

There’s a tightness in Obi-Wan’s chest that appears at those words. Anakin sounds so vulnerable and  _ scared  _ and Obi-Wan can’t help but recall the terrible smile on Anakin’s face when he was torturing the slavers. To reconcile the image of the gargoyle wings and golden eyes with his shaking padawan is a strange thing to do; yet Obi-Wan knows they are one and the same person. 

“Maybe,” Ahsoka says, but her voice is kind. “But you saw- you saw what I did to Grievous.” 

“It’s not the same.”

“Perhaps not,” Obi-Wan concedes, “but-”

“I don’t want- I-” Anakin’s voice shakes, and Obi-Wan’s arms tighten. In the Force, he sends wave after wave of soothing calm and warmth. In a sudden movement, Anakin jerks his head up and meets Obi-Wan’s eyes, and Obi-Wan can’t help but notice that they’re a clear blue with no hint of gold. “Promise me that if I become like the Son - if I become a danger - you  _ will  _ stop me.”

Obi-Wan thinks of how the Son died - with his sister dead, and with the Father dying - and his gut twists. “I should hope it never comes to that.”

Anakin’s grip on his arm is tight.  _ “Please,  _ Obi-Wan. Before I-” He swallows hard, and Obi-Wan knows - he  _ knows  _ \- that Anakin is thinking of the image of the slaves they’d just freed, and how they’d been bent and broken by a horrible evil. “Before I hurt anyone else.”

Another thought presses into Obi-Wan’s mind - the face of the Father, filled with infinite sorrow as he held the Son he’d helped to kill in his arms, and Obi-Wan knows with a horrible certainty that should he ever be faced with an Anakin who has truly Fallen - one twisted and unrecognizable by hatred, one who has become everything Obi-Wan has sworn to destroy - he will never be able to strike him down lest he turn his own heart to ash. 

“I will do what I must,” he says, refusing to promise anything while pretending to, and Anakin’s grip slackens in thanks before his mind turns to something else.

“I-” He stops, and tries again. “I don’t know if I can hide it from the Council.” His eyes flicker to the spot where the slavers are locked away, out of sight, and a flicker of hatred blossoms in the Force before flickering out and turning into fear. “I don’t  _ know  _ if I can reach the light side anymore.” 

“We’ll help you,” Ahsoka tells him fearlessly, and the Light blooms in the Force. “We’ll always be here.”

“It might not work.”

“Perhaps not,” Obi-Wan says, and dimly he thinks of how he mustn’t be the best at comforting people again. “We have had new legacies thrust upon us since our mission to Mortis. Much of our fate is uncertain right now, but we have each other. We’ll be fine as long as we stay together.”

He thinks of how the Force Wielders were locked away for millenia, undying yet isolated, and a surge of fear appears before he releases it into the Force. There is much of this situation he still does not yet understand - but he is glad, at least, that it is with two of the people he trusts the most. 

“Come, now.” He closes his eyes. “Meditate with me.”

There’s a brief silence. 

“While we’re like this?” Anakin asks, still in Obi-Wan and Ahsoka’s embrace. 

Ahsoka laughs, the sound free from hysteria and free from the echoes of bells. “Why not?”

A smile tugs at Obi-Wan’s lips, and he sends them his affirmation through their bonds. And together, they fall into meditation in the swirl of hyperspace, listening to the songs of harmony and family that sings throughout the Force. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Don't know when I'll be back. I may post an essay on the lore behind this soon - I'll see.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Always Three There Are](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27127558) by [Theia_Darkmoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theia_Darkmoon/pseuds/Theia_Darkmoon)
  * [doubting desert thunderstorms](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28323642) by [stormsirxn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormsirxn/pseuds/stormsirxn)
  * [Evolution of the Divine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28952589) by [chocolatecrowncreator](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolatecrowncreator/pseuds/chocolatecrowncreator)




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